She drank her coffee too
sweet
and drew herself
to the smell of new
pencil shavings,
like a pupil dilates in light,
telling itself to expand,
to drink up
more
and
more.

She fumbled
on old strands of her
self rising like mug steam
from poetry
she wrote only three months ago.
Wide-eyed,
reading "when
one leaves,
the past is a fetish"
in rounded, running letters
bubbling up over each other -
a gravy she found
herself constantly stirring.

And sunsets,
dashed with pink syrup,
are a passion
('passion' being her
'word' - a skin-colored tattoo,
a branded prayer, an incanted torch)
Sunsets.
Sour golden orange laced
with strawberry wine.
Bittersweet.
Passionate.

Her.

We cling to connection like ghosts that don't know they've died
that tired old storyline,
where we don't know who is really alive.
Perhaps it's a matter of perspective
perhaps it's relative
whether it's better to be dead inside
or create art with the emotion,
prose incanted with echoes of devotion we chase
to prove to the world
we're lifted from the mediocrity
as we pass the time
there's never enough of.

''Is it proper for the dog to stand in the same space as the tiger?,
We shall not hear the end of it.
Two hundred machetes, Two hundred spears are here gathered,
To war against the heavens.
It is the heavens that will over come them all.''

Oloun'yo incanted.
...
@incognitaio