These hands...
Cast of clay.

Had basked in the sun.
Deepened lines marked their faces
and enlarged cracks marred their backs.

Rough and matured.
They spoke the language of old
and hid the ancient ruins of the past.

Held together.
Side by side,
they clenched the fantastical ideals of today.

However,
uncertain and pulled apart...
The future just falls away - a ghost.
A mirage that eludes grasp and capture.

they are our dreams
some slanted
some straight
all stranger
than our everyday

we marvel
at the creations
of our inner eye

we cling to them
in moments of loneliness

they are ours
only

reflections
of reflections
backlit by fire
and glaring light
in a world upside down
where masks reign

green

in its circumference
of mirrored silhouettes
that seem to be
looking for something
elsewhere

a colorful river of words
flows out of the cave
towards an ocean
under azure sky

will it diffuse
in the blue
waves of the sea

or

stake out
in distinctive colors
a current of meaning

silhouettes
black on grey
struggle
against their dark weight

wings beating
wildly
to avoid
the crash

grey and black
and powerful

its pointed cone
***** in
all shapes and colors

we do not know
how
where
if

they come back

lost in alien space
Italians
posted their home culture
and worked for it

today
America

and the whole western world

would starve to death
without pasta pizza
and Michelangelo