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The Madman, "Yes, three days, three centuries, three aeons. Strange they would always weigh and measure. It is always a sundial and a pair of scales."

Monday, October 26, 2015

(148)

Thoughts, like dry paper, lie parched
In the corner of a crumpled consciousness
That dreams restlessly
Of fur and velvet words.

Songs, swirling silently in a ceaseless emptiness,
Sparkle and glow like fireflies behind shut eyes-
Interspersed visions of dewy flowers on a foothill
In the middle of an otherwise sheer crimson scream.

Unshed tears stain hot cheeks of exposed memories,
Exaggerated realities trample illusions treated unfairly,
Dreams are old calendars stuck on a drunkard’s poor wall,
Nothing may be salvaged as time crumbles into a bottomless black sea.

And yet,
A confounded soul digs its flaming fingers
Into the walls of a flickering heart.
Shadows stretch and hold hands
In homage to the setting sun god

Words evoke no meaning,
Meaning fails to form words
But as the crumpled paper burns
A well-versed smoke rises and fills the sky.


4 comments:

  1. Sad this one. I pray words find their meanings.
    for meanings are what makes them complete.

    ReplyDelete
  2. You paint your words so beautifully :)

    ReplyDelete