I'm too full of a fool; (in love)
death do us part, love you to death,
That's a coffin built for two,— some of me, some of you.
Why cry like an ocean; when your favourite
colour is blue?

There's a shade of yellow; particularly
in the back of your eye... so bright knowing; thinking
about you; (my brightest idea)

I'm alive; in a live performance of watching you
move my heart in motions. Motion pictures;
you fill with films of your story.

But if only...

I wasn't a writer of my imaginative;
a painter in the mind of what if's.
Being good at writing about love out of love;
this is poetic madness.

the sailing stones
were thought to be
a phenomenon
it was incomprehensible
that a rock
the inanimate
     of all inanimates
should show signs
     of movement
here was mystique
here was mystery
perhaps a message
left by
cosmic energies
or
higher beings
undecipherable
     unexplainable
there could have been
beauty
in never knowing
in letting
     the idea remain
pure
untainted
restorative

alas
we cannot bear
the unexplained;
where the miraculous
is founded
   in uncertainty
we must probe
and pry
until an answer
is found
whether for benefit
betterment
or
hindrance

perhaps a balance
can be found
between the known
and what remains
acceptably unknown
before
the intrigue
and enchantment
are marred by
the bland
     the sterile
          the prosaic

Give me a grain
of gravity, in a moment
of space time, tied to a thread
of string theory,  soaked
in one long figment
of my fantasy

and I will give you
a multi-verse.

Reading books you fly

in everywhere, completely --


without being seen.

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

A small hatch opens

in the fog, there's a small hand --


waving a little.