lean over the edge
into a pool of pungent wistfulness
on the other side of a memory
scrawled over crumpled pages
or in the depths of a silent tear
reaching out for lost history
falling gold and hushed wafts of jasmine
rising notes of the promised tomorrow
stitching together the divide

can i ask a favor?
let me climb all the way up
through the chalk of the night
scatters of seeping ivory and wan silver
treading on the tiny reminders of design
wading knee-deep through the tide of marbled moon's blood
luminescent and whispering
in flickering voices
and twinkling smiles
and let me slumber
amongst their soft and burning hues
floating in ebony waters
overflowing with splendor

she is a fragilely sculpted being
born of earth and dust and dirt
a world's oblivion is coiled around her hair
flowing over shoulders that bear numerous opinions
and sometimes various glances of vague curiosity, disdain or admiration
the celestial tied to this tiny sliver of mud
freckled aquamarine speck
bound to the earth through delicate ties
a shell of the terrestrial

the mortal who clothes herself in immortality
through the only Way
the rise of the Spirit over the desolate flesh
only through His Blood is she reminded of His divine sacrifice
for all the delicate beings that reside temporarily
on this tainted planet

she smiles in triumph
studying a loosely strung thread
a tapestry of silvered fibres
naked in exposure when caught
in strong sunlight and a thin clasp
of miniscule enchantment

oh you are of temporary matter
temporary breath
temporary flesh
temporary glory

until eternity begins

i wonder if they know the mystery
a conundrum of molten sentiments
an enigma of misheard or broken statements
a solitary piece of bone china, shattered on the ground

how did it happen?

that's what she asked herself in the haze
of phantoms choking her with lingering
smoky fingers of regrets and unspoken words
suffocating that tiny part of
her unscathed technicolor imagination

you know

the part that hasn't been sabotaged by visions of dramatic and morbid situations
that drip with the inky blood of the lost or escaped prisoners of old time ideas and essays
the state of the free and softly molded sparks
that dance in bright fields of constellations and galaxies
nebulas of true hope and joy
floating in a void of fear soaked thoughts

tell me, what do they feel like?
satin on skin, silken and luxurious
gently brushed rose petals, their velvet caress soothing pain
maybe sandpaper, each syllable dripping with poison ivy, a deadly venom of voice or pen
stabbing you with ink quilled thoughts
chewing on stained letters, each a glass edged piece of
branded CAPITAL LETTERS on the page of your cranium
burning and scalding you as they spill off your tongue
quietly, shh, speak in soft shades of lavender
or bellow it to the crowds, in violent flames of vermillion
soothe or salt the wound of another with your pen
forgive or arm yourself with a battalion of frenetic artillery

or let silence frame your contentment