Vapor Between For what its worth, I have no idea what I am doing, collecting and scaling wood blocks in a manner of constructing, charting drawn bridges with formless vapor between, like a morning touch brushing your lip with dew that just lifted. dawn pushes gifted blades of sunlight through branches sifted, a forest degree of separation toward a brand new day. For what its worth, I forgot to stretch out tension, and I didn’t mention I can see the paths I didn’t take clearly even if I didn’t take them, but I am no better at walking, only lucid dreaming almost not unlike anticipation for a less than patient ambiguously important evening. For what its worth, I am only human with an imbalanced ratio of sunset to rise surrounded by a swarm of black butterflies, but I live for moments of unexpected breath, when the right path manifests. To my eyes, hawk sightings are always awestruck and fleeting, reflections of the timeless moment between decision and action, a vapor when free will, like waves already set in motion, braces consequence in peaceful resignation. For what its worth, at my worst, I deny myself access to the Universe (the obvious message of formless ubiquity found amidst the vapor of its eminence), then Acid rain singes through clothing, and pollution settles like a soiled guest. And neon corporate crests cover innocent stars with their sad electric drone while dodging sidewalk trash walking home alone, a different dream for a drained tone. For what its worth, I mean no harm. We are each our only distinct individuality, no different in our unique degrees of difference, so I collect and scale wood blocks to construct a bridge of vapor between us, a bold attempt to transcend our isolated rust. For what its worth, here is a parlor where both poet and reader trust. RP © 2013
Posted on: Sat, 21 Sep 2013 01:59:02 +0000
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