Wallpaper pocked with garish roses, gnawed imperceptible by the objects they're tasked to enclose.
Nicotine yellows waste away upon them with unsightly permutations.
An artificial fruit basket blurbs the same comment of unmoving, life likeness.
The couch indents itself  with fled bodies, the windowsill allows odd couplings of half-dead plants.
The window freefalls the sky's latest canyon, varying preceptors of light
lacerate its transparency.
Birds push in a compass fails sort of way just outside... their colors and sizes are lights knocked out of some giant mind.
Back inside, the den serializes the spines of shelved books, and the strident terror of family/friend photographs.
Tirelessly pulling out their best-kept faces, while peppered with dust motes.
A splintered vase rests upon the coffetable, just off center, flower-less with a wisp of water inside it.
A turned off television positioned with an idiot's care...stares like a darkened billboard.

Now at the brink
of winter...ashen
bardo light of becoming.
Those who fear spaciousness
will shudder.
With the leaves gone,
there are no obstructions.

All revelation holds
true to the light of
its form...a broken
branch seems to
suckle sunlight.

Essence is the
single grain of
salt and sand
married under
a wave.

Do  leaves  reincarnate
from  the  same
petiole  they  fell  from*?

What core cut
loose the light
that drifts in the
eyes?
The freedom that's
lost in space...
whose mounting
silence reverberates
a subject and object.
With a hope never
beyond itself, that
they may unite...and
the light that drifts
sees its motion.
A moment whose
standstill encompasses
all its freedom.

The mind is double talk...
an incessant argument
with mirror images.
A paranoic account of
being pursued of cumulative
aberrations.
Birds in trust of consciousness
have been known to die of
transparency (windows).
They couldn't think beyond a
transparent space...though
a House bid them welcome,
divided against itself.