curling smoke
           consumes fingertips
her sinking cranium  

an intent to glue

a beguiling shattered mirror.

she inhales splinters


in a snow globe of dust.

you're in the kitchen again
making coffee in the dark

grinding beans, grinding teeth
dark and bitter cups
cracked and cut

like her mind

that brilliant fogged mind

with fingers extended  
she grasps onto shards of glass
carving out
carving in
plummeting spurting crimson

crushing eggshells, the dusty pink ballerina pirouettes through space,
cobwebs are her constellations, candlelight her sun

in motion, thoughts quelled,
surrounded by sensation, she can feel.
each raw exhale a release
aching muscles tensed with bliss

her mind is quiet,
no longer numb,
she is free.

there's something about waking up before the world opens it's eyes
stepping out the door,
the resonance of each tapping footstep in a silent world
whispering that you are alone.

the world is floating on a continuous drift of sleep

and you are simply a dream

I am slowly learning that
perception of the self is a foggy image indeed
and that way we see, more or less,

is a distorted retinal image

created by
whispering synapses
that do not always tell the truth

I have this inescapable question mark stamped right on my forehead.

of glaring honesty.

I feel that it is so obvious and etched into my being
that everyone I encounter can see it
and that I have to coat it with whipped cream and bubbles.

As if I am a children's Birthday party.





weeeeee.

bubbles.

**** it.

sandy toes and muddled mind, piano notes echo through the waves
clasped hands and closed eyes, pirouetting feathers hold my gaze.
fallen down, gasping purple lilacs,
tactfully joining fragments,
once again
to create something original
                            an ever constant evolution of the soul.