Silence,

In the mind

Is what he strives for-
Ushering sweet shushings
Destined to fall-

Desperately,

Hopelessly,

On deaf membranes-
Eardrums cluttered
And cloistered
By juggling run rampart-
Amuk.

The color of blood
Seeps down his forhead-
Sweatdrops glistening
Their crimson beauty-
Reminders that his sight
Is still unseen-

Cataracts unsheathed
Beneath Winter's chilling kiss
Of endless doubt and drought.

The frozen beauty captivates,
Encapsulates his mind,
And all his eyes roll back,

And his hands are useless.

A spiralling ascent
Along the world's edge
Sweatdrops fall
To a below without sunlight
Boot dust
Llamas labour under supply packs
Hoof beat lantern dance
Shadows cast on the cliff face
Distorted we loom
Above the mute fog of humanity
Summitous
Awash in the final dawn
The old Inca smiling sprouts his knife
Ancient tapestral landscape
Exhales into us
Curvously infolding
The old Inca holds out his hands
The knife cuts horizontally
Reality opens like a book upon a tabletop
There, he says,
Pointing to the infinite space between where the sky in the past met the land
Timespace lies like a discarded washcloth
And we see dimly through the mists—
There, he says,
Pizarro could not follow us,
And we see dimly through the mists—
The neon lights of
Neoqusqo

Socks on like it's a new day because what else are socks for?
Blues on because it feels like that quick pick of that day,
rock on my headphones because rather that word of dismay,
I go on beat on with the knocks of my soul

Ravage outside to the silence of the greenery,
the birds there are to see
and the glazed of the horses I wink at to help us please

Grunge on with those feet I don't attire,
train tracks with the sights of grafitti of hay wire
I walk into the city with a card-beep on
an en-lurk of the all of a sudden darkest nights
Beat tempo, okay- and a run in of a new sweatshirt for taste
Store closing and where else am I going to go?
Who knew that white, could it? Could it look good on me?

I walk in to my heaven of parade: Bars
I sit down and order a martini,
I go out to hear the distaste of making fun of me
I'm not drunk
I never usually am
I deflower the taste of the shine of liqour,
with my mouth

Though here I am on the street making a self-timer shot
and the man who works at the bar comes out with a blanket
Do you, are you cold?
I laugh and say no, what else are you going to say!

So I leave,
and did a bounce dip in the **** cafe
usually I just order coffee
this time around I felt to engo
one joint please

I'm smoking on the street
because from what I remember this Netherlands,
had a heart beat

I walk into the train station with that card beep
and walk on feeling strangely as 8 cops
head turn
attack me viciously

puking on the floor,
and train guests yell on yeah please!

What a hell of a night- my genious ways says no number please
and with a lawyer
out so swiftly

Morning to a new blue haven
I didn't have that card-beep
but I went in swiftly
lurking on the sides
for the security guard not to see

I made it home
home to me is always blue-ly
because raindrops on sweatdrops and teardrops all do the same
effort-lessly,
Blue-ly

© Clarissa C. van Vreden