If loyalty were colour and then drawn
Across the void in clear blue canvassed sky
As grand to turn the sovereign artist's scorn
Into a star perched centre in his eye,
And clouds to be impurities of purity
Devotion is known when devotions not
The idle efforts of obscurity
Yet oh! How beauty needs each sweetened dot,
The colour best that loyalty could make;
Which need reflect the finest skill at play,
Within the chest that love does love it take:
The blushing red and purple to display!

And from a distanced look at canvassed true
To be then seen: that glory's sight of you!

True love! After all,

the love potion was a fraud --


but who believes that?

In the garden of flickering neon trees,
where shadows dance with marionette leaves,
I met a man with a clockwork heart
and eyes like prisms, tearing time apart.

He whispered secrets in a language of static,
his voice a symphony of glitches and clicks,
telling tales of constellations uncharted,
and love letters written in binary scripts.

We wandered through a labyrinth of velvet mist,
where fish flew by on currents of twilight,
and the moon sang lullabies to sleeping stars,
cradled in the arms of endless night.

I found a river of liquid glass,
where thoughts flowed like mercury streams,
reflecting the dreams of forgotten gods,
and the echoes of interstellar dreams.

A carousel spun in an abandoned carnival,
each horse a phantom of forgotten lore,
and as I rode, the world unraveled,
a tapestry of surrealist decor.

In the distance, a cathedral of crystal,
its spires piercing the fabric of reality,
and inside, a choir of silent voices,
harmonizing in spectral duality.

When dawn broke, the mirage faded,
leaving only a trace of whispered winds,
and I awoke, clutching fragments of visions,
in the realm where the surreal begins.

:: 05.17.2024 ::