"kaleidoscopes" poems
With regards to Thomas Sayers Ellis
Look at the
Lucent lava lamps,
Dark craters
Hiring hands.
We walked,
Mimicking magma.
Hot, why is
This heat?
Forget Vulcan
And his illusion
Of kaleidoscopes,
A rip tide
On the shore
Of our conscious minds.
We held fire,
Pretending to swim
Underground,
But only out
Of pure respect.
Some had boots
Made with
The clippings
Of funky tripwire,
Others wore suits
With goggles
Clamped to their faces,
Gripping like
Bay Area earthquakes.
One-by-one,
Jang-strangs were
Attached to us and
Hurled into the Pit
With rhythmic rituals,
Waves of S and P
Flailed away
Like flags.
One nation
Under a new.
No one looked away
From the fiery daze.
No one wept.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 2:31 PM UTC
oh honey ****
pen and ink **** star warrior
pretty little manga girl
twinkle wisp
with kung fu throwing stars
and triple steel samurai sword
that tear through others
made of pink taffy
and cherry juice fizz blood
moving like lightening
a flying gladiator
with dripping sweet rice
and tapioca milk shake *******
oh
you would taste so good to drink
out of a swirling sherbet punch bowl
with big blow job star goldfish
and hungry pink ***** lips octopus
drooling
sit on your face suckers
oh, fighter of one-legged midgets
the best part after a fresh ****
victory ****
to go down on them
their loli pop *****
butter ***** beautiful
springing through the top of your skull
cause you can't get enough
oh wow
happy hello kitty
***** plump plops
viscous
before the coup de grâce
as she twirls their chewing gum gizzards
with her little swizzle tongue
goo ga licious
before placing
what's left of their hose like glistening entrails
around her throat like a pearl necklace
only to get strangled with it
by double **** UFO boy
solar ******* hero of the universe
so hard
she spurts pineapple juice and *** donuts
out of pucker pie ****
**** banged cross eyed
like little girl manga never felt so good
addicted to cruel
whipped with a hella wet noodle
yes no yes no yes no
yes pleazzz
her big blue marble glass eyes
binocular kaleidoscopes
spring out on the floor
and roll around
turning into all seeing
anti-gravity magnetized
silver pin stripped spaceships
peopled by
evil omni ****** **** *****
screaming through eternity
in search of cosmic
tushi sushi
ogling wiggling ballerina butts
bubble gum for the eyeballs
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 3:36 PM UTC
Crazy reared its many heads
Twisted shades of paisley swirls
Kaleidoscope emotionality
Rollercoaster of fear and love
Through the storms of mushroom clouds
An air of peace remained
For that ever-changing scene
Was founded in the purest love
The realest dream come true
No fear of insanity consuming truth
Truth is kaleidoscopes are beautiful
Never boring by design
There is peace in the knowledge
That crazy is exceptional, brilliant
To know a soul, exciting
And through it all
We traverse the universe as one
Riding the wings of insanity
Skiing across the seas
On the backs of narwhals
Simply because they are awesome
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 4:55 AM UTC
the grass, leaning in the south wind , seeming
as if emeralds, had sent tendrils up
to suckle at the yellow breast, now, high above inflamed....
over soft new
grass
like
strands of green gemstone,
as delicate as humming-bird tongues
teasing nectar
from a titan,
in the sky
triumphant in the void,
a golden bead in the baffling blue !
cattails, curling in sway...and two brown eyes bob upon the surface
of a myriad fertilities.
as if
nature itself had known, one day
a poet would come ~
to roam the rambling renascence of these remote ramparts
in awesome humility ~ and so prepared
a path afflux
that ambled near
and yes !
an
anonymous nomad
with nicotine skin and a scabbard of scandalous quills
would indeed
stumble in as if returning home
to a mansion restored to glory
and seraphic randomness....
a place
that in youth, sustained a quiet, soulful troubadour
by gospels of granite and grain, grass finch
and faun - ennobling an oracle ... but now
enticed a scholar from his cot
to jot ephemera
of outlasting spark
before dark-fall
and so... there
amid all allurement and soft machines
a word-smith gathered
poesy and prose.
muse-driven
this one served
an invisible
sovereign
one
of unsurpassed virility
who charms kaleidoscopes
with offhand sketches
rescued
from
a landfill
a basket weaver,
that unravels to
achieve pure
forms
a wineskin was decanted in dianthus and hollies -
as ampules of anagrams
were sold unscrambled, to dyslexics
without hope
a falcon frolicked above the lowborn lilies...
with eyes
too keen
to see a
blur
as the hand
of god
or a vole
as a lifeline
on his
palm.
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 6:15 PM UTC
I was born with butterfly's on my tongue
and glitter in my veins
People tell me its dust but I know better
I see it whenever I get a knick or a scratch
and it falls down like feathers
catching the light and dancing like kaleidoscopes
Like the shimmer of fish scales
Like Christmas lights
Like twinkling stars
I am a book
and every mark on my skin is a memory written in
fine sharp detail with a red glitter pen
Stress line on paper
Faded ink blots
And when I open up
I'm magic
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 5:26 AM UTC
Alice was a hippy girl
whimsical and free spirited
in dalliance with imagination.
Living in a trippy world
and a psychedelic dream.
Where life was fluffy and free
from the restraints of responsibility.
Her thoughts drifting
always questioning.
Far out man.
Always in her daydream bubble
partying for peace and love,
keeping her soul out of trouble.
In nonsense rhyme
and hallucinogenic vibe,
creating her own escape.
And all the while her rabbit
with an anxiety problem,
would tell her he was
going to be late.
She nibbled on cakes
that she laced,
with her boyfriend
and together they embraced
their Wonderland.
Grinning like Cheshire cats
hand in hand spiralling,
out of control
down rabbit holes.
Far out man.
Always in her daydream bubble
partying for peace and love,
keeping her soul out of trouble
in nonsense rhyme
and hallucinogenic vibe
creating her own escape
And all the while her rabbit
with an anxiety problem
would tell her he was
going to be late.
Spending their days in wonder
in unknown potions drunk
they would ponder
the meaning of life,
in playing cards talking
with ***** smoking
caterpillars and
mocking turtles on a beach.
Reality so far out of reach.
Far out man.
Always in her daydream bubble
partying for peace and love,
keeping her soul out of trouble
in nonsense rhyme
and hallucinogenic vibe
creating her own escape
And all the while her rabbit
with an anxiety problem
would tell her he was
going to be late.
Alice was a hippy girl
whimsical and free spirited.
Wishing for a different world,
escaping in kaleidoscopes.
Mind blowing and free.
The truth smashed down
her house of cards in responsibility,
and she had a date with reality
in actuality reality eventually
Growing up man.
Always in her daydream bubble
partying for peace and love,
keeping her soul out of trouble
in nonsense rhyme
and hallucinogenic vibe
creating her own escape
And all the while her rabbit
with an anxiety problem
would tell her he was
going to be late.
He was going to be late.
He was going to be late.
©Jacqui Slade
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 4:41 AM UTC
the grass, leaning in the south wind , seeming
as if emeralds, had sent tendrils up
to suckle at the yellow breast, now, high above inflamed....
over soft new
grass
like
strands of green gemstone,
as delicate as humming-bird tongues
teasing nectar
from a titan,
in the sky
triumphant in the void,
a golden bead in the baffling blue !
cattails, curling in sway...and two brown eyes bob upon the surface
of a myriad fertilities.
as if
nature itself had known, one day
a poet would come ~
to roam the rambling renascence of these remote ramparts
in awesome humility ~ and so prepared
a path afflux
that ambled near
and yes !
an
anonymous nomad
with nicotine skin and a scabbard of scandalous quills
would indeed
stumble in as if returning home
to a mansion restored to glory
and seraphic randomness....
a place
that in youth, sustained a quiet, soulful troubadour
by gospels of granite and grain, grass finch
and faun - ennobling an oracle ... but now
enticed a scholar from his cot
to jot ephemera
of outlasting spark
before darkfall
and so... there
amid all allurement and soft machines
a word-smith gathered
poesy and prose.
muse-driven
this one served
an invisible
sovereign
one
of unsurpassed virility
who charms kaleidoscopes
with offhand sketches
rescued
from
a landfill
a basket weaver,
that unravels to
achieve pure
forms
a wineskin was decanted in dianthus and hollies -
as ampules of anagrams
were sold unscrambled, to dyslexics
without hope
a falcon frolicked above the lowborn lilies...
with eyes
too keen
to see a
blur
as the hand
of god
or a vole
as a lifeline
on his
palm.
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 5:51 PM UTC
sitting at the kitchen table
crying,
and trying to
explain to my mom
why i stayed
while she told me,
with small kaleidoscopes of
warped devastation
pooling in her eyes
and rolling down her cheeks,
that this is scaring her.
because, it sounds like
i’m the type of girl
who stays,
while her husband beats her.
the girl she raised.
sitting at the kitchen table
crying,
and realizing
that when you ran your hands
through my hair as you kissed me,
you were twirling my future around
your fingers.
this is scaring me
because you’ll be the guy
who carved the hole in my chest
that stays
i know i will see your fingerprints
in all the hands that will come after you.
And I Will Run.
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 1:24 AM UTC
"io sol uno."
-Dante, Purgatorio
There I was,
the comic-tragic star of my own motion-picture,
bold beneath the springtime Italian sun hung high
--a heavenly fixture,
illuminating the gold-leaf enframed frescoes in
kaleidoscopes of colours,
baking dry the pigeon droppings upon the flagstones
they smothered,
where I, in all my self-serving recreation,
posed proudly in a costume of my own creation,
an operatic villain clad in a billowy blouse of black,
the Campanile Tower like a sentinel behind my back,
as movie cameras panned and zoomed,
paparazzi photographers capturing me
and freezing me,
in all my wicked, medieval glory,
floating and gloating in the dank aroma of the Venetian seas,
*"I'm the shining star!
--Look at me, look at me!"*
-the super-special star I always knew I'd be,
a painted parody,
a harlequin of displaced passions
for all to laugh at and see,
before slipping silently
into the ornate basilica,
dim and dark as night,
thanking Mother Mary (for nothing) as I sparked
a votive candle's light,
not really sure or caring
where my life would lead,
just as long as the Azure Queen
shed Her Grace on me,
me,
me,
...until I fell
and fell
to the mockery of a home
I made in Hell,
hard and forever and fast,
the only fool left alone in my solo cast,
adrift with no direction,
****** and lost,
me and my frivolous theatre,
squandered an an extravagant cost.
_____________
"io sol uno" means, "I, myself, alone."
This poem is a true-life story.
__________
See the Piazza San Marco, Venice, Italy:
http://www.carfree.com/design/pix/sqlg110venice_piazza-san-marco.jpg
Sep 13, 2010
Sep 13, 2010 at 11:01 AM UTC
They float they soar bursting
Warmly on her nose, she giggles
At The sensation felt, at the
Feeling of happiness that now
Grows as they drift along.
They were her little wings,
Gliding through a flurry of
Rainbows, shimmering light
Glances of perfect bubbles.
Kaleidoscopes Bouncing
From one to another as little
Wings let bubbles Play with
The wind, a wonderful sight
To be hold.
She looked at this little wings,
Awe struck upon there creations
Upon the beauty of this dragons
Two. She wiggled her fingers
Playful towards them both
As one licked upon her digit
Then kissed her on her nose.
Flurries of laugher, innocent
And true, were followed by
A cloud of bubbles, shimmering
In the clear blue. She would
Always remember this day, as
She played with her little bubble
Dragons. Do you want to play in
The garden with me, bubbles,
Dragons and you.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 6:42 PM UTC
Her soul screams rainbow, but the words that take
Shelter under the roof of her mouth are
Part white, part Othello. I wish she could
Be herself… more yellow, like angels that
Drip kaleidoscopes over Italy’s
Stone white cathedrals. Her soul screams rainbow.
Her shoulders are crowned with the head of a
Tiger, yet she still loses sleep over
The opinions of sheep. She beams false glow,
And her thoughts grow like Venus fly traps on
The concrete. Her scars sit on a checkered
Floorboard of sporadic emotion, and
Her poetic pain paints grand pianos.
Know she not that heaven recites her soul?
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 3:43 AM UTC
Free falling; gone in an instant-- blink of an eyelash faster than lightning, flashing like brilliance
Drilling holes into the psyche
Astronomical; impeccable aim
Breathtaking colors with patterns like kaleidoscopes the creativity blows the mind
It's the morphine you can take without overdosing in pain and numbness
It's the chase you can't escape if you wanted to but you won't even try
It's the height of ecstasy and the awe of gratification
Its pure and magnetizing invigoration
When you prove what you set out to prove
When you give it all, you have everything to lose
The negative chatter fills the gaps of endurance and credence
The silence of the aftermath, leaves a clear distinctive taste
All the critics and the villains siphon air so you lose the ability to breathe
There is a glimmer, a tiny microorganism still standing on two feet pushing forward
Moving slow
Falling sideways
All, all alone
Glowing, fueling, bursting...flooding roadblocks, causing traffic
All the commotion is seeding havoc
Like an artist left unknown...you will grow
Flow and flower into a masterpiece
And the free fall secures you high amongst the nebula
There is no more spiraling downwards there is only a tiger lurking, always ready to pounce
On their victims, on the goals you've set ahead
Like a real winner always does, you finish first
because you did your very best
You're a tiger and you just earned you your stripes
So leave the amateurs on their soap box discombobulated
You're resilient, even savvy
You're a vision to be reckoned with
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 3:07 AM UTC
I could tell that you had smoked a cigarette
yesterday before I saw you because
your shirt smelled like smoke and
your lips tasted like
lung cancer. (I like to to pretend
that it doesn’t really bother me that
this is not the only connection
you have with my father.)
My parents, my sister, and you, my darling, all
have green eyes. Green like miniature
earths turning in space, like Lake Michigan capsizing,
like the summer leaves in the woods behind my house.
Sometimes I think that I’m more closely related to
my grandparents because when I
turned down the emeralds, I was given
sapphires to use as kaleidoscopes instead.
And, you know, my father called me a month ago and
wished me luck “in the big city” and I still
do not know if that means he knows
where I am or not; I have
not heard from my mother in over five years.
(I like to pretend that your relationship
with your parents is much easier than mine.)
Do you remember that time when you told me that
“everyone sins?”
I do not think that you took into account
the amount of which we all sin. (All sinners are equal,
but some are more equal than others.) Sometimes
I think that the Viking blood inside of me
makes sure that I identify with
the villains more than the heroes.
Sometimes I think that
you are the hero.
But, darling, there so many things I
tip toe around when it comes to you, and
I am not sure why—religion, politics; the
Chernobyl boy, the inked boy, my father, my mother; the
moths that live inside my gut, the layer of dust over my limbic system.
I wish that I had the words to say that I can never
be what you want, what my
family wants, what anyone wants.
I wish that I could tell you how I
think I am drowning in the in the gene pool,
how I am convinced that I’ve broken three bones
without actually breaking them, how I lay awake
at night, scared to death that my
dreamcatcher will stop working and that the
nightmares will finally catch up with me.
There are broken wishbones in my bed that
I keep as trophies of losing to luck and
blood stains on my clothes from all
the lambs that I’ve been forced to slaughter.
All I want to do is tell you why I prefer
cigar smoke to cigarette smoke
and how I would rather have you
quit all together than live another day knowing that
you’re dying faster than me.
But darling, I watched the world spin last night
when I opened my eyes and looked at you
looking at me, and for now, it’ll do. You
can be the nightlight in the corner of my room.
Wait for me in my chrysalis. Listen to my wings flutter.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 3:03 AM UTC
We were so small,
But we felt galaxies within us—
Miles and miles of open road, splintering off in all directions.
We'd talk all night about how one day
The boys would come running and we'd pick them off like flower petals, humming
'He loves me, He loves me not.'
We'd dream about having our hearts broken,
Just like in all of those movies,
Hoping to one day be shattered so beautifully
Our hearts would become kaleidoscopes
When the light hit just right.
We'd stare at the old women in the theaters who talk too loud,
Ask too many questions.
We swore that'd be us one day,
Kids grown up, husbands at home,
Laughing at the little girls wearing high heels and bright lipstick.
But you found a boy, and he has a car—
He says you must be the prettiest girl he's ever seen.
And I'm not even a single star, much less a whole galaxy.
Time doesn't fly away—it dies,
And I've come to realize that we die with it.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 7:25 PM UTC
*I'm balancing the seesaw rhythm of the sun against the moon
Swooning in circles- my vice to your versa
Dropping the dice
Hoping these verses are keeping you warm when my hands cannot
Knotting underwater thirst taking aim at a sea salt sprinkled sky
Kaleidoscopes revolving in my eyes
Complimenting stars who have never blushed so bright
I’m sorry
It’s been a long time since I’ve been down this road
I’m looking for the letter that comes after ‘T’
I remember finding her
Where it rained rose petals
Rose pedals, from sunrise till sunsleep
Where every morning began like taking my first breath of real air
Like an overload of senses
Ego waiving defenses
So dizzy till your dancing
There are places where romance is like science and religion combined
How serotonin can spill from your mouth and into mine
And returning the favor gets wrapped in your thighs tied tightly
Where an epoch of yin meets an eternity of yang
Where the seesaw pivot meets rose petal rain*
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 6:38 AM UTC
Pain in the thighs
from the endless straddles
Pin ****** in the ribs
from a poorly made white willows dress
All are things much desired by a pudgy adolescent female
A garment of ill conceived freedom
An illusion
Of frolic in utopia
It was just a small gate way to the mud caked feet
And into the auto eclipses
Of stargazing zombies
Those still relied on vintage kaleidoscopes
All Full of cracks
See in her bleeding ignorance
the shores still remained open
Turquoise schooners unleashed
The tree tops were still aching to be claimed
Reincarnated as a paradise for attractive drifters
Not even the all mouth beasts
can contain her patented enthusiasm
The straw huts break for assembly
under a tiny hand
Too bad the cracks have been secured
The air was kept to boil
and stain the linoleum
Echoes of a puritan called to action
The streams soon hardened
to form plastic shelving
And the orange flowers collapse
to form packing materials
Onto the plastic shelving is were we placed the books
The books that know that freedom
is just copy right infringement
And life is a micromanaging instruction
Designed to make workers eat their own demise
Grid-less prosperity
cremated in the corner of a starter home
Only an anthropologic mistake
Meant to ward of a mass pandemic of sudden infant death syndrome
The pudgy filled girl,
The comedic car and the overproduced dress
They will learn the value of a hot meal and a good ********
The dreamers almost stole her away
in their patchwork parachute
But we sent her away to Universidad
And the world is her worthless cluster ****
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 8:59 AM UTC
His eyes were galaxies reflected in the vortexes of her heart
Shimmering nothings she loved to be lost and found in
Whenever he gazed upon a horizon or tabletop or cup of tea
She could almost see
What he saw set off the foreshocks in her own soul
Capricorn kaleidoscopes and faerie fliers
Of flaking eternities and sauntering demises
Eyes brimming with the untold fantasy of the pinned butterfly
He could see over the folds of Time
(carpet smothering bodies of resistance)
Second hands writhing from the slither of reversible realities
Eyes dripping smoke from the burning within him
He had a beauty no one could envy
For he was the eighth wonder
That he managed to survive in this world
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 8:01 PM UTC
1. (photographs; kaleidoscopes)
I tried to capture you
in words, the way you were, the way
with each relentless second
you would never be again.
2. (words were not enough)
because
a) language is a frail medium
for the powerful; the overwhelming;
b) emotions are shifting, & imprecise.
3. (I tried, a thousand times, to say)
how I found in you the wonder I had always looked for;
always missed.
4. (we can choose how we react)
how rare and beautiful
it is — to me — that you exist.
5. (you)
your hurricane eyes
twilight smiles
shoulders
where
have you
been?
6. (define morning as a feeling, not a time of day)
what did you think about when you poured your coffee and did you feel relieved when you heard the sound of rain? what colour was the daylight; and does love ever happen to you, in the traffic of rush hour?
7. (I said)
“come on --
let me take you home”.
“I am here” she said “you are it”
8. (he asked me)
"have you ever been in love with someone you knew you couldn’t have?”
I’ve never been anything else.
9. (a single green light across the bay)
I will rearrange my life around your meaningless smiles —
when love is not returned to us,
we will never stop looking for it.
10. (holding on and letting go)
there is a space between breaths and heartbeats — an endless moment, the infinite, an entr’acte in the operas of unrequited love.
11. (simply because I found her irresistible)
and yet that’s what we do, isn’t it?
we hang onto hope —
in every hopelessly irrational way that we can.
12. (and so part of me is always a fool)
I will wait for you forever.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
Paraphrased is my paradise
Pushed down
Clouds
Waiting to be found
Left in mass transition
Pondering in blurred positions
Paraphrased is my paradise
Pushed down
Celestial clouds
Waiting to be found
Distorting my vision
Bent through kaleidoscopes
Caught in between
Periods of hope
Jul 29, 2010
Jul 29, 2010 at 4:38 PM UTC
The indifference of paper kaleidoscopes
touches the afternoon's stained glass.
Scattered bubbles of blood
repeat the vaporous names of rocks.
The world itself wavers between
straying syllables of books.
A blank moment arrives
staring at secrets made visible.
All day is the stillness of
unchanging light around the temple.
Between 'come' and 'go'
the same motionless theater of rest.
Time gobbles up
the elusively throbbing reflections.
Myself the ghostly transparency
made of circular-turning glass.
Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 3:09 PM UTC
I tried to write a poem about The Woman,
but I read it again and didn’t like it,
because it sounded like I knew what I was talking about.
Well, I don’t. Not really, no.
I’m just desperately grateful
that some women noticed me, and some
cared about me and gave me
the world. Their world,
which means everything, you see,
including comfort, fierce loyalty,
and most of all, acceptance and forgiveness.
Forgiveness was their greatest gift of all.
So this stuff about
cosmic kaleidoscopes of desire,
and delirious dreams and
raunchy *** and, and,
pain sometimes, is,
well, it’s only partly true.
Incandescent love is unconditional.
That's what they gave me, see,
and this all I want to humbly say.
Mike T Minehan
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 5:35 AM UTC
Life can be hard when your thoughts are messier than your bed could ever be.
Sentences, phrases, words, anything just racing around my mind.
Sometime I can sort them, catagorise them in a way that makes them easier to perceive.
But sometimes, that's not the case.
They twist and manipulate as if my mind is a kaleidoscope and every new thought just adds another fragment to the broken picture inside my head.
Maybe it would help to understand, or maybe it would just add to the confusion.
I wish I understood why my mind works like this, in these confusing an mysterious ways.
Perhaps one day I'll understand why they behave this way, but for now I'll continue trying to organise my racing thoughts.
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 2:33 PM UTC
Some days are just black and white
Greyscale, monochrome
Just plain
Vanilla ice cream
Other days are vibrant and astounding
Kaleidoscopes viewed through kaleidoscopes
Completely original and new
Mint chocolate chip
And for me it seems
There's no in-between
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 11:57 AM UTC
After a brush with death
his eyes were like kaleidoscopes
the scene reflected himself in relation
to an ever changing world
he felt impermance
in an after glow
as the sun decended behind
the mountain's asylum
Soldier Summit's quieted railroad
an attraction to some
but for others a refuge
after a long and hateful dawn
May their souls rest in peace
those who eternally are blanketed by snow
and may the moutains speak
to the survivors who fight to reach the top of them
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 8:16 AM UTC
Am I in the right headspace?
Do I travel the galaxies conjured by my thoughts just to end up in black holes?
I’m seeking epiphanies
You know, those elusive supernovas that defy even the eyes of gods
I claim to be rich in spirit, yes
Trying to measure my wealth with the hours I spend in the stratosphere
above every worry that injects my bones with the weight of 2 Earths-
the weight of a place that doesn’t want to ever wait
Yet it must
You can’t break a chrysalis and expect patterns on the wings
You’ll get misshapen kaleidoscopes
and fragmented isotopes
beings who’ve never climbed but will die trying to ascend ropes
Am I in the right headspace?
Is my consciousness a constellation waiting to take form?
What will be the shape?
I’ll never be strong enough to resemble the buckle on Orion’s belt
I’ll never be the mouth at the big dipper,
drunk on the secrets of the cosmos
I’d want to be the hands gripping Polaris
sharing light for the planets who only see a moon rise
Am I in the right headspace?
Because I’ve fallen into nebulas,
realms where humans stand on the heads of giants yet look no higher
I’ve seen flawed ideologies that challenge monuments with their size
I wonder what it’d take for us to realize that we could be immortals
free from the finite mentalities that stunt our growth from the very roots.
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 9:15 PM UTC