instrumental
dreamer

time free
to sight see

wide
down
corybantic
oval
perimeter
shedding
tiers

in a garden
of angels
sprinkled
with pine cones
at the border of
void and Vaud

cantons
of meltwater cirque
les petites Fauconnières
the inner basin
of my outer reaches

I am
your
visitor
I am
your
audience

let's
stop
for snow
and polar cap
songs
where things
are still run by the natural elements
instrumental dreamer
not by algorithms
not by advancement

Do you have to get high when you low
In hopes of solving your mental problems

you showed me love
you taught me the beauty of forgiveness
you taught me to laugh
but your eyes don't smile at me anymore
they're enveloped in a suffocating fog
this emptiness weighs
I can't find words
That can cover the silence you left

Thirty-two is fourteen short of forty-six.
Thirty-two collects pools of hope,
and swims naked in them without fear.
It no longer wears a muzzle
but proudly wears a mask.
Thirty-two sees through a lens
of remarkable colors.
Its prismatic visions are
years ahead of its time.
Thirty-two tastes like tinny blood
on a tongue bitten for far too long;
it sings confidence
through chipped teeth—
freed from four years of clenched disgust.
Thirty-two does not have time
to stop and smell the roses,
but will demonstrate how
to make perfume from them, instead.
It has the words that
thirty-one never had
and keeps them in a pocket
that will accidentally go through the wash.
Thirty-two walks in the opposite direction,
but ends up on greener grass.
It orders a drink with a covered smile
and still generously tips the rude bartender.
Thirty-two prefers both
honey and vinegar to catch its flies,
and professes that knowledge
is a weapon best sharpened by modesty.
Thirty-two is an even number with
an odd beginning.
It suggests that what comes next
might have even more curves.
Thirty-two sets the stage for transformation,
but, more importantly,
drops the mic.