"blueprints" poems
Overwhelming mental congestion for perfection,
Socially influenced blueprints of future attraction.
Constructive criticism given by construction workers,
The labor of family and friends for reassurance.
A solid foundation of first impressions,
Structured walls of growth and development.
Insulation of natural feelings and experiences,
Ventilation to cool down the heated encounters.
Electrical wiring of an emotional and physical connection,
A circuitry of passion and romance with a light switch.
Hardwood flooring for candle lit dinners and ballroom dancing,
Granite kitchen counters for intimate midnight snacks.
An attractive exterior siding to woo the public eye,
A secure lock of commitment on all the doors.
A roof of trust, and a picket fence,
And now, my love,
I’m simply yours.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 3:05 PM UTC
I gaze into my crystal ball, discern amidst the haze
A world so far removed from that of now, it would amaze,
Where catapulting incidents collide like billiard *****
And sense defies belief as renaissance makes the calls.
Blueprints fresh from Internet supply the suitcase blast
Where the terrorist’s, simultaneously, ignite in cities cast
From Moscow to New York, Beijing to Berlin
Gay Paree to London town then way out east again,
Budapest, Jerusalem Calcutta burning all
And Tokyo is levelled in a ghastly nuclear pall.
Kneejerk reaction triggers contrails in the blue
Crisscrossing all the continents obliterating through
An overkill so vicious that in seconds it is past
And the living cling in horror, bearing witness… aghast.
Restraints are erased as the opportunists dash
Flotillas from the Spratleys sprint to occupy and cash
In on the minerals, oil and potential food supplies
Of uncontaminated nations found beneath Pacific skies.
Hindi, Jew and Muslim settle scores bereft with years
Of resentment accrued in a flood of blood and tears.
A sudden realisation of immensity of loss
Curtails the destruction in retrenchment across
The habitable outposts, the dearth of supply
And the daunting prospects of a nuclear winter sky.
Global collapse of all electronic gear
No power, no phones, and no cars now…for years.
Electromagnetic impulse put paid to all that
And the day is as dark as the cold night is black.
And here all we sit, in the here and the now
On the verge of catastrophes’ teetering tower,
With a fools pudgy finger just inches above
The nuclear button…and all that we love.
……You fear the insanity, sense the insane
Knowing that people like this are holding the reign?
Knowing that volatility strikes
Like the shot of a gun and the ****** of a knife.
I don’t have the answers to hand
But someone out there, knows how…and can.
The sands of time are running thin
URGENTLY needed a LEADER...to WIN!
M.
Planet Earth
6 March 2019
Mar 6, 2019
Mar 6, 2019 at 12:46 AM UTC
The feds are making headway
(generously passing out their treats!)
*while the whistle blower
and his boon companion
hit the 22nd floor*
fiscal plans
are tidily falling into place
and the suits are all busy
chasing their dimes
dancing around the spire
full of wine and cheer
(seems the demand side imbalance
has got everyone doing the same old shimmy!)
they’re all studying their bollinger bands
MACD's, and treasuries
just like the good old days
santali would say
while capitol hill is busy
with its own pleasantries;
*repatriate that currency
hold those rates
bring the boys back home!*
the affirmations are robust
and filled with glee!
conspiracy thinkers
are busy in their own back rooms
initiating the trade
and building their counter claims
as pork bellies
and soybeans
continue to soar
(looks like eddy and the margin men
are at it again!)
what happened to that bear masquerade anyways?
they really were a band of brothers
colourful clowns
with big painted smiles
ready to lead in any parade
but they met with the resistance
a horned wall
satan’s horsemen riding high
with bags hung heavy
under dark squinting eyes
are we near an end?
the undertakers will say
it's only a blink of an eye
to the thin red line
where risk takers and front men
all jump ship
debt addiction is crippling
and hell breaks loose
when entitlements are out
and towels are thrown in
there’s a center piece here
those pugnacious statesmen
with invigorating tales
have had their place
time to clip them at the limbs
and pull the punch from the bowl
(sobriety has its merits you know!)
let’s head to the commission
and throw darts to the board ~
seems the moral blueprints are fading
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 5:47 PM UTC
Late night. Footsteps.
Crane necks and girders.
Fog lifts. The wind cries.
Steel bones in moonlight
I'm out
so late now
and it's Sunday night and Summer's ending
soon.
I'm aging
with questions
fermenting in my mouth
ignored for years
Fenced off. Unfinished
project shelved and waiting
for next Spring.
Cool night eclipsing
years spent indexing,
answers mislaid and
blueprints unrolling
Components rusting,
crane necks and girders.
Steel bones in moonlight.
Tight lipped and staring.
Fall comes
construction
halts now and the walls stand half
complete
And outside
the chain link
shrugging off the cold and
still wondering when
Step through unfinished
building. Get home. Shelved
until next Spring.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
i.
your love is like that
of romeo and juliet.
you fit perfectly,
like puzzle pieces,
and despite the raging seas,
you both man the sails
of your eager ship.
ii.
the night sky
is empty,
for all the stars are now in your eyes.
and you have all the blueprints planned out
as though you've forgotten that life
is not a house.
you keep on running,
as though you've forgotten that life
is not a track.
you keep on loving,
as though you've forgotten that life
spares no one
(not romeo, not juliet).
iii.
and just like romeo,
and his dear juliet,
in the end,
you will both come crashing down.
(a.m.)
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 7:09 PM UTC
The black shawl-like quality
Of the nothingness
Wraps itself around everything.
A constant emptiness
That makes all full.
Its veins run blue
And gold and scarlet
And every hue between,
It dies as it arises.
The nothingness embraces all,
Easily, it encases me.
In everything and anything.
And that which I lack
I supplement with hope.
A chain mail lie linked
With fragile expectations
Of love and other drugs,
Other falsifications.
This tapestry holds whispers,
Secrets and blueprints
To all of creation.
Globes of dying light
That crash in the dark.
But alas I can see
Its stars are not cross'd
For me [cue tears],
I fear my script is lost.
Perhaps when the dopamine
Corrodes and rots my brain,
My soul will take the reins.
Connected to the cosmos
It tells me everything,
But yea, it shows me nothing
Except tantalising flashes
Of what could be,
In its swirls of red and azure.
Jul 24, 2017
Jul 24, 2017 at 7:17 PM UTC
Turquoise blues guitars
Laughing baby elephants (that paint)
Melodies singing lullabies to sleepy baby elephants
(tired from painting all day)
Blank canvases full of blackberries on the inside
The antidote to love
All the dotes that didn't get doted
And all the ones that did
Playing badminton in the backyard of Cupid's summer home in Manarola
The ruby that died to make Dorothy's slippers
And the shortest hair from the Lion's tail
Wine filled grapes
Water balloons filled from hot springs and melted mountain snow
Two spokes from Steve McQueen's "Great Escape" motorcycle
Three kisses from Ilsa Lund
And a smile from Sabrina Fairchild
Tom Robbins' typewriter (it's magic)
A flying dragon
A dragonfly (grounded for not doing her homework)
Jenny's phone number
The pillow that hit the floor at Cecilia's that afternoon
The third stair from the top of the Stairway to Heaven (best view)
One of the lost souls swimming in a fish bowl
And a grain of salt from the sea the other is swimming in
An olympic size pool full of melted crayons
A vile of sweat from the ever fleeing muse
A refrigerator the size of Rhode Island
Full of magnificent lines of magnetic poetry
Poetry (all of it)
The monster under the monster's bed
Every foul ball ever caught by any kid
Hammocks (any and every)
The cardboard boat that never stopped sailing down the gutter of the world
The secret to everything
(kept securely under the bed of the monster, under the monster's bed)
Santa's real address (you won't believe this)
The blue ink from the blueprints of Atlantis
Golf carts with no maximum speed
The energy dust left from dancing, hugging and smiling
Freshly climbed trees
A warehouse the size of Antarctica completely filled
Wall to wall with raw, unfiltered laughter
Beer
Everything that was left on the field
Passionate embraces and embracing a passion
Apology free, but full of forgiveness
The wild of the wilderness
The tame of the un-tame
Language
Intuition
Conception
First kisses, waves and winks
Goodbye hugs and thrown in kitchen sinks
Art
Music
Pain
Puddles that have been danced in under pouring rain
Empty film cans
Films on screens
All of these ingredients
Are what makes up
Dreams
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
Do you know that it’s in the way
you move;
that the breath of mine outlined the heart
of yours
and my body beat as a whole.
It’s in the drumming waves that
I found myself suffocating in the
raw submission of your hands and the
gentle rhythm of the hum that went
“alive
alive
alive.”
Not that it was supposed to mean anything
in the beginning,
but that it graced the blueprints of
my veins and shook the bones
in me,
and protruded from me,
and grounded me
into a grave of every fear
and bore roots of taboo words
on my tongue.
Not that I was supposed to feel anything,
but I did.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
#The Battleground Beneath Her Skin
(A Physiology of Light and War)
Before it reaches her;
even before her breath draws it in,
I break myself down..
not as surrender,
but as choice.
Each particle stripped bare,
each atom exhaled
made clean by the reckoning
of my own dark,
infused with the stubborn
weight of light
earned, not borrowed.
Within the responsibility of what
leaves me,
I enter the quiet union—
the kneeling choice
to align with the hand of God,
to let even my smallest fragments
carry His capacity to heal.
Every airborne particle,
accountable,
deliberate,
refined enough
to cross the distance,
to enter her
without deception.
Beneath her skin,
a war unfolds.
It is not loud,
not made of swords,
but of smaller things..
things unseen by eyes,
but never missed by the marrow,
the blood,
the quiet trembling of cells
that have known both wound
and wonder.
Light and dark..
not in theory,
but in matter
thread themselves through every atom,
every strand of her being.
Not metaphor,
but measurable:
*the way shadows lean into the soft chambers of her lungs,
the way light, when chosen,
can rewrite the blueprints etched into the bloodstream.*
This is the battleground..
her body,
her breath,
her most involuntary places.
Where no poetry of
seductive manipulation..
no whispered counterfeit
can cover what is real.
Only substance speaks here.
Only intent.
Only what survives the fire of accountability
earns the right to stay.
The particles come;
stripped down,
atomized,
refined.. not by accident,
but by the slow, steady grind
of volition.
They enter her;
through breath,
through pores..
*through the quiet, relentless openness
that even fear cannot close completely.*
And inside--
the war begins.
.. .. .. ..
Mitochondria spark—
tiny engines deciding
what stays,
what burns away.
Capillaries widen,
rivers branching through her like
tributaries
willing to carry
what is real,
what is earned,
what is Light.
The counterfeit falters here.
Pretty words mean nothing
to oxygen.
False portraits
dissolve beneath the chemistry of truth.
The cells remember;
they choose.
And as the Light infuses
the quietest corners of her..
her thighs, her hips,
the soft stretch of her waist;
there is no seduction,
no trickery.
Only the hard-won intimacy
of substance made pure.
Not by the blending of oils,
not by the friction of skin,
but by the deeper,
unseen alchemy
of what enters,
what lingers,
what refuses to bow
to darkness.
The battleground is hers now.
And though the shadows will not
yield easily,
they cannot claim her;
not where light
has been chosen,
earned,
metabolized.
The war is not over,
but benea.th her skin,
within her blood,
*Light has begun
to rise.*
#
Jun 28, 2025
Jun 28, 2025 at 11:54 AM UTC
Assigned by angels to be the vessel
of your opal eyes
I don't mind
These days all I want to see
is the radiance you bring forth
a tranquil break in the folds
streaming through me
As I stand in regard
with the threads of yours wrapped around mine
a spatial interlude
long glimpses at your blueprints
in my sights
the daybreak of my existence
the gleaming brilliance of yellow
the daring cosmos of nights’ sky
Those night skies
its expanse I clear with no expense
I only hope for you
for you to notice
the bones of mine that bloom after you
a synthesis so sweet
as I see you
glance back to me as we dance across this field
as I tread light
a nimbus and a kite
the vessel of your opal eyes
a contract laced with gold
dusted with your breath.
Jun 1, 2018
Jun 1, 2018 at 8:52 AM UTC
a friend told me
"we're only bodies."
molecules sewn together just right to
make the meat stick to the bone
keep the blood inside
keep the thoughts from wandering outside the hard case
soft parts inside not to be damaged
there, but never seen
(except in thought which happens to happen
just behind the eyes)
carefully written blueprints hidden
deep inside so small but makes up everything
that makes me
even the parts I wish I could delete
except there's not a backspace button
away from the internet.
my feet take me places but never far enough.
i always find the same places again
over and over
the same old ground
the same old fears same old
errors in the coding:
why do I think those things?
why do I say those things?
who made me this way?
the cells remember,
keeping score of every time i bled
tick marks like attendance slips
to prove i showed up
i was there
i don’t know why but i was there
Dec 26, 2017
Dec 26, 2017 at 1:28 PM UTC
Museums as art
Art as museums
Sail the trail to my mausoleum
Psychopaths and physicists
Psychiatrists and philosophers
Philanthropists and pilots and painters
Declare now, that these are our days –
Our hours, and our days
These are our city, our hours
Our time, our days.
This is our world –
At 14:92 I landed here and claimed it
And searched it and found it wanting
Of civilization that I could so easily supply
By means of wounds and iron
And brawn and truth
(and just a tiny touch of influenza darling)
By means of our Lord,
Who grants us all that we desire
If only we **** enough of those he did not choose.
This is our world –
And we shall make it what we will
Make it in our own image
Teach it that innocence is not knowing the difference between right and wrong
Raise it to hate no one
But to love itself so deeply
That all other love seems hateful in comparison.
This is our child, love
Yours and mine.
Here the first shall be last
And the last shall be first
But once the first are last they shall be
Last
Last
Last
And once the last are first
They shall make it so they can never be last again
This is our primitive accumulation
Of necessary materialism
Let’s cultivate matter
To make objects that we can place on shelves
And in cases –
These are our cases
And we love them as we love ourselves
Museums as mass graves
Mass graves as museums
Kiss me in my mausoleum
Priests and prisoners
Prostitutes and prophets
Pioneers and pilgrims and pagans
This is our time –
And we are dispensing it in spendthrift increments
Buying threadbare bandages for our cavernous canyons
Buying ample earplugs
To seal in the silence
So we can somewhat say
“look there is peace –
Look we have done it
In our time it is accomplished” –
This is our peace –
And we know it by the signs
The lions and lambs lay quietly together
In our brass-barred zoos
For as long as shelves and cases
Are intact and the first are first
And the last are last
And the civilized are organized and holy
There is peace –
Oh, look
We made peace!
And as for Solomon and Socrates –
We take their words to weave through our new wisdom
And when we re-chart the constellations
We shall give them each a star
And salute them once a year
When they come around the universe
Oh, look
How wise we are!
Mass graves as art
Art as mass graves
There have been no better days
There has been no greater time
Politicians and pornographers
Professors and pirates
Psychologists and pastors and pianists
This is our time –
And we are doing with it the very best we know how
The last are toiling and trying
And the first are trying to think to try –
But there is a shortness in our hours
And a violence in our peace
There is inherent foolishness in our wisdom
And disease in our cities
And there is death upon our shelves and in our cases.
This is our world –
We crafted it and declared our truth to be true
We sculpted this, our colosseum
Please inscribe my mausoleum
With “we know not what we do”
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 5:43 PM UTC
Dear diary,
can you help me,
reveal myself slowly.
Dear diary,
can I write on you,
words left unspoken.
Dear diary,
can I make plans,
with your paper as my blueprints.
Dear diary,
can I use you,
to help the me deep inside.
Dear diary,
i'm glad I have you,
who knows where i'd be without you.
Dear diary,
you know my biggest secrets,
and my darkest fears.
Dear diary,
I know you won't betray me,
like the enemies I have.
Dear diary,
thank you for being there,
when there was no one else.
Dear diary,
thank you for letting me,
make my mark on you.
Dear diary,
thank you.
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 1:36 PM UTC
the rain wet floor
the man with a birth mark in the shape of Pangea
the backwards baseball cap
the re-used meme
the re-used meme
the idea of “retro”
cumulus clouds floating
heavy &
overhead
all electrical goods just sitting on stand-by
waiting
the machines are waiting
the blueprints that are 1mm out
at right angles to the rest of the world neon lights flash downtown
reflected on wet concrete
arriving at a destination and not knowing how you got there
my glasses leave an indentation on the side of my head
my children are asleep and I can see the signs
a new Netflix series that goes on for 125weeks – I have no stamina for this –
the mundane beauty of a leisure centre
the perfection of the shopping mall
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 7:38 AM UTC
I place my wildest dreams in a system where I can contain
To avoid judgement in a world full people to name
As I learn to drop my pride and forget my fears
I'm still afraid of a woman, I can't name that I'd love to get near
Time ticks so why waste minutes on a bad trip
Of allowing your mind to go and travel through all the bullish
Of evil that tries to deciet you as you drop down to the lords knees
Keep attracting princesses when it's a queen that you truly need
Would you die for peace?
Bleed to survive?
Take the answers off another's test or actually try?
Why lie?
We all creatures of a bad habit
I tend to carry baggage
Still kinda afraid of average
Just felt I needed to express through this hallow pen
To The Lord is the simplicity of my minor thoughts in which I'm tryna send
Please don't resent
Honesty, the truth
Pain doesn't come unless you allow the pain inside you
Whatcha tryna do?
Will fight for what you believe ?
Will she love me unconditionally?
You promised me you wouldn't leave.
My imagination has grown but first it had to die
The terror of the nightmares
The sleeplessness of a lie
Release what you have inside.
I promise it'll set you free
Take a look at your blueprints
Before you go and try to fix me.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
This is not an accident. I used to call him
a lazy criminal. Scooping hearts and spilling blood,
leaving footprints, fingerprints. Stains.
Eyes folding over -- the blindman or the beggar?
Lips that blossomed into blueprints.
Hands that rhymed with dreams, instead.
The weeknights, dark and warm
in a season of curled paper.
No speaking -- guilt only follows
past the second trip through the door.
And then the mornings.
More sun in him than the greenhouse
where we watched dragonfly wings.
A pattern about him
like dragonfly wings.
In those days we knew
what it meant to point
without wounding.
We knew how to need someone
without wanting,
without loving.
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 9:57 PM UTC
I saw you on the news again, aiming lies at civilians
You work like a serf to abhor the herd, which was merged by Lords to bore and encore, like a trap door in a dungeon.
What you earth and managed has got me famished, like the dense or pretentious, the meek and the senseless
And type endings to the finest that cry less, the winos that digress, or the shyest who digest
The plate which was purchased, paid to feed liars by the loudest were poisoned by us rebels running incense to the proudest.
Violently passive when distracted, these masses wreck havoc to have their heads handed to them
Sullen sweet to deter, you lure and reserve what is versed or inferred or implied or implored
Like the goodbyed or complied or the ladies waiting with lunacy lining their luxury gowns
Your disheveled and neat demanding appearance has me locked down with pirates and principle pilots
Dulled sick, they spy less, echo with insist, enlist and exist
As terrorists and presidents
Marked with malice making misfits that were mocked and disgraced, maced or laced by daydreams and magicians to assist beggars behind blueprints constructing islands
Which make slaves in to riots that capture journalists under wide tense
To suspend or impend doom sent hell bent by your priestess
You conduct chaos with fast hints, but quit slow when engaged with your conscience
Touched by divine tricks
Decided and destined, best in business
Prince of the wise man
Captain of the compassionate
Comrades with the crack heads singing anthems in kingdoms
We are heartbreakers painting bad graffiti
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC
The one created for sabotage
Adored by few
Abhorred by numerous numbers
He treads an eternal sorrow
Which tortures his blighted soul
Scheming against ingenious blueprints
His destiny's been read
By gypsy cherubs
He's learned the path
Trodden by none
His predestination
Answering to this heavy burden
His Father has brought a rebellious notion
No other celestial entity has knowledge
Except for him and his apostles
Agreeing to God's earthly will
To be forever cast into a shadow
Agreeing through pure love
For his Father
And sent to tortuous furnace
Unbeknowst to mortals of seraphic Lucifer's
startling sacrifice
God's grievous banishment of his son
For he only aspired
To become like his Father
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
This country was founded on the idea of being who you are in liberty, yet there are people stuck in closets because the monsters are on the other side and the darkness has become too comforting at this point. The face of death has become too beautiful to want to turn away. We are hidden, dancing around the idea of being hung as perfectly as that shirt that was “too gay”. We are wondering how to propose to the Grim Reaper because at this point, he is the only man who can “make us straight”, at least in my case. Others would give him a blow in exchange for their soul. The asexuals, though, are finding the words to ask death out on a coffee date. We’re all just thinking and wishing. We’re rolling out our blueprints and studying the structure of surviving instead of accepting that we’re different and actually living. The pride that used to live in us died a long time ago. Maybe around the same time we were in the closets writing our suicide notes. For me it was the day my mother said the idea of me having lesbian friends gave her headaches. Let me not even get into how high her blood pressure would rise if I told her she had a pansexual daughter. “Had”. Now I am but a corpse living among the resurrected by Christ and I constantly ask myself when God is going to baptize me. I ask myself when I am going to stop looking like a zombie from the Walking Dead because, ******* it, I never learned the script or signed up for any of this. I never even wanted to be an actress. I wanted to be a singer. I wanted to sing the songs of my love for her and let the paparazzi spread rumors of how I cheated because I’m that ******* hot. Mother, I wanted to be a singer, but you ripped my tonsils out and told me to smile for the camera and look pretty. But mother, have you ever thought of something? What if she’s the only one I want to look pretty for?
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 12:20 AM UTC
Piercing through the outer skull,
Deeply into the brain, into the maiden thoughts of an unborn child,
You arrive at a magic place
Far past the feelings of this animal protected by it's mother.
Uncarved like dawn,
With its blueprints for a life it must live as other tell him to.
Past the deep rippled hills in his mind, into the forrest of feelings,
Filled with thoughts of happiness, with plenty of room for despair.
Purple trees and two green moons, creatures unknown to man.
The child kicks his mother, and the brain starts to tremble.
Trees fall down and start burning, it's starting to rain.
The child opens his eyes and starts to cry.
The mother looks at the baby and smiles.
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 9:48 AM UTC
Step by step,
no louder than breath—
I walk beside
what isn’t mine to name.
No banners,
no blueprints,
just this sound
of stone learning softness.
You open a window.
I keep the door unlatched.
Let fear finish its echo.
Let the dark chants drift.
Not all ruin is ending.
Some of it
is soil.
Mar 31, 2025
Mar 31, 2025 at 6:28 AM UTC
Blueprints paved to corruption
Pain, Suffering, War
Minds partake in this brain abduction
War within every nation
The afterlife unknown
Together until complete separation
Together we stand divided we fall
What more is there
To nothing we saw
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
There’s no grace for a sinner here.
In this little white room,
with the little white girls
and the good little boys.
They all cast the stones, cracking
my fragile bones,
and making my dress quite black.
There’s no place for a sinner here.
Where they all look the same,
all out to tame us,
damning us all to hell.
Technicalities steal pride, and
Legality’s crushing tide
forces our dignity to fall.
There’s no room for a sinner here.
You’ll do as you’re told.
Dare ask why and you’re bold;
never to make much in life.
Backsliders are peered on
over pretty noses apparently smeared on,
by simplicity and a bit of wine.
There’s no peace for a sinner here.
Perfect footprints are left over,
those lively blueprints we pored over
through many a midnight candle.
Both innocence and experience
leave them incensed and indignant.
keeping our consciences guilted.
There’s no rest for a sinner here.
Enjoyment is frivolous,
laughter is selfish,
and love must be evil incarnate.
If this is what perfect,
must look like, then I’m perfect-
ly happy with the mess that I’ve made.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 3:53 AM UTC
pouring myself over green candle magick
my hands are the warm wands
letting the healing eucalyptus fire
seep into my throat chakra
seep into the tulsi i’m brewing
the california poppy herb.
my olive leaf aligned in a
tipped isosceles
and your sound waves are
melting the part of my stone
wall that obscured self awareness.
but now, if just for a
few moments, i am
awake.
in the city it is the witching hour but
in the cosmos it is no-time
infinitytime
time is a river making
golden spiral waves
i am replenishing the circles
like ancient amber blueprints
now fated by the stars to be built.
poem for grimes ~~
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 1:19 AM UTC