And then,
the fury boils in my blood,
because I can hear cellos and violins on the silence;
when I think of you.

I turn my self into an extint quetzal,
and the rainforest cries,
because I don't have you,
since nothing of this is real,


and I'm still thinking of you,

then I look trough the window,
to the sky,
and I see clouds,

then I imagine that we are making love,
and we fall asleep,
and we dream of I don't know what random things;

suddenly I come back to reality,
when I see two hummingbirds trough the same window,

and everything turns out to be stridentist,

like a rattle of my heart when your tongue relish my right earlobe,

and I think of you,

and my hands are the color of your voice,
so deep...

And nothing matters now,

because, fiercely, you endure, ungraspable
like an aria in the opus of my mind,



and now, you have become real...

[Lost Animals]
Cats probably aren’t even lost
Dogs are trying to find the way back to you
And then there’s butterflies and wild geese that can fly
thousands of miles and back every year and just know
The way home  

[Photographs of Abandoned Places]
Empty rooms filled with flotsam and jetsam
once colorful but now faded and dusty
what draws us here?
The emptiness, the mystery of why we would leave
our dwellings and go elsewhere

[“Don't Lost" Sign]
Our faces were cold and it was windy
we smiled and laughed anyway
warm from the dim lights and food we’d left behind
Don’t lost what? Don’t get lost? Don’t lose yourself?
Cryptic commands posed by an unknown painter with bad grammar  

[Labyrinth]
Isn’t it strange that we make a game out of getting lost?
Ariadne Gave Theseus golden thread to solve the Labyrinth and defeat the Minotaur
Cathedrals have them too, so we can meditate and walk through them
But what minotaur lies at the center of our labyrinth?
More importantly, can we defeat it?  

[Cultural Appropriation]
A clinical term for the simple act
of erasure, of losing.
A people, a nation a culture, a shared memory
who are we without these things?
Such power in taking them away and reducing the people to shadows.  

[Photographs of Chernobyl]
An eerie empty city of ghosts
The pictures show that nature will take us all back one day
there are trees in living rooms and schools  
The photos of howling, pain, mutation are a warning that we shouldn’t seek to have
So much power.

[Losing People]
Stoics say that when someone has died you have ‘returned’ them
This sounds better than losing I suppose
because they aren’t lost
they are gone. And they’re never coming back
No matter where or how long we look we won’t find them  

[Guiding Stars]
The palest of light that seeps into our atmosphere
we are under the same stars as everyone else wherever we are on this lonely planet
that ought to give some comfort, when I look up at night that I see the same stars
as you. I want to brush them into the palm of my hand and offer their light
to you so you could maybe see your words are what is painted on the inside of my soul.  

[Feeling at a Loss]
My tongue is tied and I can’t even think of words because I can’t breathe
around this knot in my chest that forms when I think of you and how I lied and why I let
myself lose you and so for a long while my heart cried oceans and I begged it to stop
So I wouldn’t have to think about the words that I didn’t say and the light I lost,
the brightest that came from your heart.    

[At a Loss for Words]
When someone says something you’re not even sure you heard right, you’re stunned
because you can’t even think of a response while the blood rushes to your face and
pounds in your ears like waves on the beach will you sit silent, stoic
not wanting to give away heat you feel just under the skin.  

[Losing My Religion]
How can you lose your beliefs? Unless someone stole them
Or the disgust with hypocrisy built on good intentions breaks in you until you lose sight
of what you believe to be real and all you can do is renounce it.
What happens if you never knew what to believe in the first place?
A crisis of faith is averted? But at what price?

[Lost Clothes]
The left sock, left glove, that ugly winter jacket you had as a kid.
Where do they go? Why do they just disappear? You just never find them. What do you
Do with the extras? What happens to the lost ones? Is there a land for lost socks? Are
they lonely, trying to find their other half?  

[Missing Person Posters]
Can you lose a person? No, surely not. How can let someone fade from you so far away
that they go missing? Maybe they let themselves fade. Pulled away.
Of course, they could be stolen, or forget who they are, but that is almost less disturbing
than thinking of than people running away or being lost by people
who are supposed to care.

[Lost Cause]
Maybe not so much a cause going nowhere as one that people tired of
too much work with no end in sight. So they left and let the tenacious ones
the true believers take over, to finish the ***** work and clean up the mess
is that how this grace thing works? Holding your tongue while someone else chases
glory only to abandon it when it is too difficult and they leave you to see it through?

[Lost My Mind]
My mind is currently wandering through some forested path on a mountain almost
on the way to touching the sky or lying on the bottom of a the clearest blue ocean
looking up through the kelp leaves and shimmering fish. Or between words of a book.
So forgive me, I missed what you were saying. I’m sure it was important. I was just
trying to follow my mind to those places. And be somewhere else.        

[Lost Souls]
The kind of thing you say talking about a girl with empty sad eyes raccooned by liner.
Or a boy who is always angry or in an altered state of consciousness,
so he can face his everyday. It is reminiscent of ghosts, who wander, not sure where to
go, or who to trust so they hold their despair and fear tightly against their chests.    

[Lost Time]
A euphemism for fainting. Or maybe used by historians for a time with no records.
It sounds more mysterious, Where can time go, except forwards? How can there be a
lost part of time? it sounds as though time has a private life, that it won’t share.
Unless asked politely. Which is what we do when we investigate the past isn’t it,
Looking for the lives of others.  

[The Lost Generation]
“Don’t wanna be an American Idiot” said Scott, and Ernest, and Gertrude.
So they sent each other invitations to their chic Parisian salons on creamy white paper
and said ‘darling let’s make it a holiday!’ and had a divine time with the French
so they wrote novels of despair and disdain and the pain of being human.
and drowned the pain in champagne and beautiful women and men.  

[Lost in Translation]
Some words that cannot be translated in English especially
ones that are raw and tender and romantic
ones that are universal feelings with no name that everyone understands
but the meaning is changed to make it something no one understands in English
So something universal becomes something ungraspable to all.   

[Lost and Found]
The one who crawled out the cave
out of the dark into the pure light so they were blind
Gave so much to come back for the others out of love?
Or a sense of duty? Or maybe they were just returning, as we all do
as we all will do someday.

I know my standards should be raised from someone who hardly acknowledges my being a person, but every day of every week of every month the smallest recollection of you cause an overwhelming sensation of euphoria, not even happiness but euphoria.
I ponder the smallest conversation, the faintest touch; every piece of you gives my being more reason to go on.  And you don't even know it.  But still I say: euphoria.
When given the chance my mind runs races of just what we could be.  All far fetched--  all ungraspable fantasies, but the thought of us as one keeps me afloat.  Euphoria.

I force myself to stop, to grasp the truth instead, I loathe these sensational battles with what will never be.  But I always pray to feel it again:

Euphoria.

her poems
pierce us
to our core..
we must surrender
to her choice
of words..
a wrong word
she despairs
to malaria compares..

perhaps a way inside
enter her two doors..
watch these
switch and intertwine..
heaven/hell
soul/society
light/slant
morning/night..
find ourselves on the  /

still..
as we wrestle
are we grasping for an
Emily Ungraspable..?

Without the souls of Trouvere, will he aspire to spheres from where he can replicate himself in the ductile state of the ceremonious Energeia...? The naive action is univocal as the first practice modulated in inclinations and lexical motricities, where they die within their fears, failing to hope and convalesce their desecrated wounds congruent in concepts of Energeia, as an arbitrary neologism to move what in itself is not self- scrollable. Vernarth after witnessing Stratonice's intermission decides to run barefoot for those who banish needs on the parental scale of his range. Succeeded by the need of Energeia towards the impudent sense of being enraptured in possibilities, and supernatural substantialities that transported him in the Epistle even to his desiring hands, but in natural causes, and kinetic emotionality in the destiny of the principles of a movement that dialogues by a spinning spin; alembicated in particles of displacement time eccentricity, towards itself in the synonymous statics, providing intrinsic angles to be associated with the rotation of time and Epistolary demands so that the quantum light can relate the energetic spiritual emotionality, with the own dissociated relationship in the spaces of appearance; where it is to be believed that there is a moment of bias provided in the emotional-movement rooted in linear memories of the temporality of the Hellenic mental axis. Everything is proper in the coordinates of the speculating, which is adduced and duplicated in Poielípsis or unveiled generation of relativistic emotions. For this reason, Vernarth naughty importunates this metaphysical precognition, alluding to particles that generate dissimilar inclinations in lapses until reaching the threshold from when Stratonice partially divided its material and spiritual origin into stationary diversity, in meditated phases that will not take place nuclear, but in the polymathy of its exteriorized threshold, and of the emotional mass of its free and passionate matter that concerns its strident and impalpable Macedonian origin.

From this moment on, the intuition corresponds to the angular reinforcement of "Poielípsis", in this way the coordinate of the Souls of Trouvere becomes present, as pseudo images of the Diadochi, involving magnetized radial movements that will lie in the spheres of physical value., in the garb of the Gerakis and Petrobus, who strived in the sense of the energeia of the Epsilon neologism, not to restrict themselves as Aristotle affirms, investigating the being towards a mono-sense in this causal, of such alpha that it says the paradoxical, demonstrating the diversity of optics. Faced with this diatribe Vernarth from the naturalness decides to empower Souls that are part of both topics according to Vernarth, it is to alleviate the potentialities of the acts that apprehend the light of genius that coexists with both. What the entity justified us in unfolding will be delivered by divine intelligence, so as not to reduce the free power of the Epsilon that was extracted in the welcoming presence of Stratonice still withdrawn in the atmosphere of the Voielípsis (substitute scale of relativistic emotions of Vernarth). There are few seconds that can be extended more from a selective argument of trends in the specifications, which could be attributed to dimensions of the Trouvere period of souls, lacking stillness in simulated biological environments, as if they deliberate the naturalness of an expression of who It does not philosophize if something has to detach itself or grab hold of creation to privilege the natural, re-arguing affection when professing, if there is time to express it, so it is intuited what the virtue of muttering simultaneously in the laborious, and in what does not progress. The dynamics of this Poielípsis is to dress the Voielípsis, as an analogous addition of quantum causality and of temporal and timeless Christianity, since it supports a conjugate mix deified by Saint Thomas Aquinas, heading towards the prop in the mega absorption of Christian Aristotelian ideals. The souls of Trouvere will be residents of the indeterminate spiritual mechanics, to deposit effects of the incredulous versatility in themselves, in the sub-aquatic depths that coexist with the geological structure of the cavern of San Juan Apóstol, but in subterranean concomitance, under the same axial coordinate that is sustained sub-geological. Namely; They will coexist as long as the Mandragoron of the Duoverso and its Voielípsis are established, but three hundred and eight meters from its antipode in the underwater base of the Profitis Ilias.

The antithetical line is the verifiable germinability of those vertical events of the plinth settled by the Souls of Trouvere, containing the germinable starch of the growth of the ergonometric stirrup of the Zefian Bolt, which from zero elevation to 308 meters above the Aegean level will form a mega extra parapsychological bilocation, which will be gestated in its uniform vertical chronological numbering, with the pre-Christian Pythagorean and post-Christian representation in the coronation of Carlo Magno, mentioned in royal visions by the Apostle Santiago, in the versant apology of Pythagoras as an entity supra divine, envisioning the scenographic depository, and fragmentability of these three components of this start of the Hellenic Magna in the hydrographic, sub-terrestrial geological and residential basin of the Souls of Trouvere.
The upholstery of the Pythia of Herófila attacks the subtended of the flying buttress that supported the volcanic cavities of the Sub-Patmos, indicating its agreement with the Souls of Trouvere by its disoriented cognitive dissonance, generating paradigms that traced stones that formulated Aquarian sounds, in a dominant tonality by the minuscule machine of light, more distant from the incommensurability that escaped eclipsed in the resplendent major note that becomes monarchical by the hypotenuse of a rectangle in three subdominant angles. This brings about the thaumaturgy of Pythiais, the mother of Pythagoras who, together with Vernarth's Poielípsis, forge retentive songs given the scarce natural light that was only born from some of Trouvere's souls called Poielípsis, in stories of the oracular Delphians. The Poielípsis remains encapsulated from the thaumaturgy of the banal anti-desires that would make it mortal, for a hypotenuse that makes the gift of poetic prayer tangible, prompting the Bio axiom, by fertilizing scaled suspicions of repeated mortality in the banner of risk. Stratonice well points it out:

“The signal field has been prophesied today for the Apollo tripod. Having to reencause itself in three parts of the support of the oracles, and in clairvoyance in the pre and post Christian insemination of the gift of the word that redeems man from sin, sub-tenant of the flying buttress, from the interface of the supra trinity of sin as a blood element, and difficult to evade or avoid. Here the Hegemonic energy of Alexander the Great has been condensed in the arch of ideas, pointing out that the diseased body of Antiochus; my father…, is supplanted by that of the to happen all the trances and difficulties that are assumed after the hazardous departure in Babylon. Therefore he has to bring all the corollary prophesied in the death of my grandfather Seleucus in the hands of Ptolemy Ceraunos. Wanting to dress up the irrevocable interference that occurred in Judah by his Diadocos gangs, opting for the effect of his offspring, therefore on his spiritual stretch of energetic residual and static mass, ad libitum that will end when unleashed in his son. All will already be consumed in the pathogenic body of Antiochus, and of the love for my mother where she was abducted, and possessed she sees by retaliation from Alexander the Great for proven insubordinate ethical demands. "

Stratonice walks with the sendal that should be translucent by Santiago of Compostela. As an intra-everlasting geometric raconto, subduing fears that slide through the sendal of the dogma of the architrave, where no philosophy can look higher if it is not allowed, typical of vegetarianism or freedoms that turn green in fears that do not illuminate life. eternal, perhaps from the same Matematikoi who doubts a basis for Adfinitas, to understand limitless limits, taking Pythagoras to the soil of Crotona. Always, someone who is ignored of the linguistic power, he plans to rewind spheres that still weave crossed angles, placing himself in scores to consider as an irreplaceable past. The soul of Poielípsis adopted a Pythagorean conception, in the halters of the livid legions of Orpheus, as if it were his consecrated hypogeum where the high position was, to stir to the embankment where it will merge with the Zefian arrow. This liquefaction should purify all storage of cognitive and circumscribes of those ancestral, becoming reincarnable pre-Christians, who transmigrate in the need of osmosis of universal unity. Atonal music will transmigrate molecules to great sidereal distances, being the same replica of the other eurythmic, in multi-trigonometric periods, vivifying the fractional number residues as souls of the same numeral that finally perish of Pythagorean digits, perhaps at the angles of the Phalanxes of Vernarth or in the oblique crucial moment that slumbers in an elegy, flourishing in those beings that do not Live...! Already under-treated, they will only be souls tired of keeping themselves alive and deprived of their morbidity, in a dissociated cause of immortality that will distance itself from the forbidden abstinences, in liberating exercises of any count that ponders in the coming etymology of the Vita Pythagorae, on the divan of the joys of serving his doctrine, which saves himself, and which will save the Messiah, for those who in the soul have no sacrifice of a lamb that grazes..., nor on the pedestal that goes ahead in the centuries..., pasturing what nobody was capable of ?. The second triad of the oracle of Apollo of the Souls of Trouvere reveal Charles the Great, favored by the Apostle Santiago for the protectorate of Compostela and its spiritual regency, invited Charlemagne from Aachen, in 33 consecutive years of dispute with swords, stating that the Saxons never complied with the treaties and signed surrenders. Charlemagne placed himself at the head of his army on several occasions to fight with his sword against the Saxon danger, also entrusting the troops to the counts when other matters required his presence.

In the second segment of the concave wasteland of the straight ascendant of Trouvere, he crowned Charlemagne emperor of Rome and the Franks, predicted by the Apostle James, in defensive papal struggles and in defense of Christianity. In this paradigm it appears how they are transmitted from the dead ungraspable world, they unite here in the axon of Poielípsis for the sake of the times that occur due to the anonymity of a silence that augured to link, and to know within what the endless intrinsically organic movement is, as well as the biological cosmos in the discovery of the Jacobean route. In what better region than the Dodecanese, he will be fused by twelve apostles, and now the brother of the son of Zebedee; Santiago brother of Saint John the Apostle. Dating back to 778 AD, spreading to Hispania. In the ****** and constant fight against the Saxons, Carlo Magno, entered Hispania crossing the Pyrenees, as a preview of the aforementioned Jacobean Route, everything raged witnessing their overwhelmed squares in the fueros of the Trouveres, who were Pythagorean elite soldiers, who had been bilocated in this post was Christian, preceded by the perfidious Basque in the forests, subsisting separated right here from the progenitors of the Trouvers, who claimed to be the strongest to continue them to Pamplona with Charlemagne. All escaped from Islam, and not a few Christians resented this affront, the dynamics will be reflected in the Songs of the French Gesta, to enter the Jacobean Route on the way to Santiago de Compostela, when the Calixtino Codex, in its book IV o Historia Turpini, the apparition of the Apostle Santiago to Charlemagne is told in dreams, pointing to the Milky Way as a way to find his tomb, which must free them from the Saracens to be able to venerate their relics with the enamels and medallions that they issued in the Apostle's crypt in Compostela. The souls of Trouvere, are beings that enjoyed a short life in the Pyrenees, they enjoyed the fortune of originating a liberator of post-Christian inheritances, mechanized by the exquisite citation of Pythagorean antiquity, behind indigo faded in red blood cells, to dress the sendal of the figure of Faith, freed behind those who should have dressed her as a Codex Calixtinus.

Five sections rose along the straight line of the Trouvere pyramidal axon, the base of the liturgical appendix that honors the multidimensional space, with antiphons for the cult of Carlo Magno on the underlying Patmos. Santiago was lacerated in the Holy Land far from his Brother Apostle Saint John, but he came to meet with the Trouveres who came from the rugged Pyrenees. Santiago passed the Strait of Gibraltar and reached Padrón, which is about 20 kilometers west of Santiago de Compostela; there some angels took him to the place where he actively rests. In a boat he arrived..., and always by the Mediterranean he will now reach Patmos, still acquiring the iconography that attempts to find Charlemagne, and a codex that would unite pre-Christians like Pythagoras and Aristotle united in the relic of the taxpayers transformed into three maritime rivers, concerned with a predicted belligerent episode, to say that all roads lead to Patmos, like Locus Sanctus, of all the shepherds who heal their sheep in which they are not of others that are populated with souls white, for the good of others. Thus the souls of Trouvere from the Pyrenees revealed themselves as predecessors of the raiding of the shells 308 meters below the Profitis Ilias, in agreement with Stratonice who would be arriving in Macedonia, where the passing of the centuries would tell him about the Jacobean Route instructed in confronts, and concordances with the airones of the Trouvere, protected by a rectangle in three subdominant Pythagorean angles in the dissipated darkness of the golden indigo of Theoskepasti, in the meridian of Kímolos.

The world is too uncertain for us to be sure of anything. Personally I don't think there is an absolute truth. There I said it. Take me away Nietzsche, I'm with you on this one. We are all so different, all so set apart in our unique, frail and wicked mortality. To have one single frame of existence is debilitating. If this difference is so telling of our humanity then why the hell do we have truth? To what purpose? To contain and unite us despite our individuality? Suppose the truth is given this way: A newborn and a goat are expected to survive with just a small patch of grass. Which of the two gets more chance of survival and existential fulfillment? How can that be when those two are apples and oranges? Their circumstances are so opposite. How is life supposed to be fair to the newborn? I am not saying that life is fair because hell it is far from it. But do we accept that unfair principle or make our lives a little better?  Will his happiness be on that grass as well? Of course not. So he looks for new ways to be happy. He has his own truth.

To this end, I have questioned everything from my faith, to myself, to people, to science even. Life grows along with time and so are our realities. This is why these past few months I've been contradicting myself to the point of thinking I've gone mad. But the fact is I've grown from these experiences of letting my two polar opposites meet. It is honestly scary when these inner voices start jabbing at you like pointed needles.I am a walking contradiction and my mind is a maze of paradoxes and questions with no answers. Eventually, I got used to this mentally exhausting activity. When something entirely different from what I believe be it an opinion, an idea, or a controversy) speaks up in my face I've learned to accept them not as the truth but as possibilities that could very well be right or wrong. I will never be always right.

People are so used to the concept of certainty that we have altogether ignored the existence of possibility. Or the gray area to which simply no one end exists. I realized that we are all predisposed to find answers, to hang on to some sort of explanation to a world so phenomenally ungraspable. It is to the detriment of our open mindedness enough for us to fabricate truths which may very well be coverups for the all too universal fear of the unknown. We are afraid of floating in the ambiguous nature of our lives that we'd rather correct this with assumptions.

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 3, 2015)

Misattribution. Imagination mistaken for memory.

False memory that there were little pink teacups on my twelve-month birthday cake.

False memory that there were maleficent masks iron-worked into the bars of my crib.

False memory of my wedding after the photographs took over.

False memory of watching Bob Saget do standup on cable TV with Nellie and Donna and this being long before Full House ever started.  

False memory of everything my mother said never happened.

The past is partial and true and untrue; partially there and not there.

Chords of our mind in wet knots and dry brittle knots and eroding.

Theorists would have it be all or nothing: why hold on to the vapor of the past?

Why cherish what is ultimately ungraspable?

But the solid ground was built by the past.

But the solid ground has sinkholes.

Walk carefully. Walk slowly. Feel the ground under the palms of your feet.

Feel the tremor of the now before your memory takes it away.

I'm talking to pine trees
teetering on a brush fire--
they do not speak English,
needle whispers are of a foreign tongue.
Feet varnished by sap
clodden with traces and feel no pain,
You will not forget.
(It only rubs off with extra-****** olive oil,
a pumice stone,
boiling water;
I had none.)
Later
toes slick and raw,
hands fleshy red in heat,
the ungraspable fresh veneer.

I let my fingernails grow out.

The forest burnt down in my eyes.

Today Feelings are dense
Seperable? yes, but by no average surf
The air is quiet.  All noise comes from within.
Plenty of noise it is though.

Excitement is present,  it is quite busy.
For fear needs to be fought off repeatedly.
No one feeling is dominant in this marsh of inner thoughts.
Nothing gets done, for focus is ungraspable.

These thoughts would be dangerous to follow
If one could see clear enough to do so
For it has not yet been determined,
Upon what side most thoughts lay.

ALL THE IMPORTANT POETS

One day I found all the important poets -
Shakespeare, Bukowski, Dickinson and Rilke
partying in the park drinking Coronas,
feeding pigeons on the green.

Astonished I queried,
"You are all my thought heroes, and yet you laze about.
"Shouldn’t you be writing something famous?"
And they erupted in a literate cacophony of guffaws,
their eyes tearing,
their cheeks shining red with mirth.

Shakespeare turned to me and said,
"Forget it kid !
Meter, metaphor, rhythm and rhyme -
it’s all just groundlessness.
All the adjectives in the world divined just so
only lead to a place in your heart
you’ll never really understand anyway.
It’s simply a mystery, ineffable."

Bukowski tried to ask Rilke about the letters
he'd written to that frustrated young poet,
but he was so drunk on cooking sherry
he could only mumble, gesticulate and grin.

And then sweet Emily said,
"Yes. William is right.
Rainer Marie tried to explain it.
Charles tried to drink into it,
yet it remains the glass bead game -
ungraspable by dearest turn of phrase.
So we have decided to put down our pens
and take a breather."

She quietly handed me the bag of crumbs,
suggesting I toss a few here and there
for the pigeon's lollygagging by.......
"They're hungry, the simple little dears," she said.

.

  I.

When the poet first met her, again,
Cupid tried to strike him with an arrow.
It missed because the poet stared
through her. Not at her.

Yesterday it was,
'Get online loser.'
Tonight she says: quick
give me a description of Paris.

She always says such things.

He says: cold
like the pin-*****
of morning after-skin. Warm
like the shiver of a hand
held soft; of lips kissed.

He always says such things.

He even calls her Honeybear,
Cupid be ******.


  II.

He liked her because she read more books than him.

Her voice always made the sound of a page turned:
Crisp, clear, passionate;
revelling in the present,
but always waiting for the next sentence.

As if a book could actually speak
like a person.

As if the hours
she spent reading alone were not
just conversations with herself.

As if every syllable
was a night-whisper with
the great American dead.

The poet doubted if she ever
truly talked to Fitzgerald because
he was a drunk too obsessed
with one spirit. She'd get annoyed.

But then again, her drink of choice
is also an ungraspable green light.

Paris.


  III.

When she put on her spectacles,
the world became less clearer:
she could only see how far away she was
from where she was supposed to be.
The sharper life's images were,
the surer she became of this.

She had her substitutes for foreign oxygen:
novels, movies, songs, poems;
but they never quite breathed the same.
He tried to force the glasses off her.
Maybe then she could more barely
make out the thorny edges of sun-dried Acacias,
and more fuzzily the general sun-warmth
that he thought was the Kgalagadi soul.

She refused, but when she didn't,
she wore contact lenses. Real,
or imagined, the thin sheet of
dream glass pressed against her eyes
could never disappear. Her soul
was where it was: where it wasn't.
So still all she could see,
even when he smiled vivid,
was a place that wasn't Paris.


  IV.

Somewhere.

That is where she thought she was.
Here, an indescribable place.
Indescribable because she saw it grey. He
instead saw dappled speckles,
and rainbows flickering across every corner.
But he was of here and here alone, he felt
the landscape's beauty in his bones. She
wondered why she should look at
sandy semi-desert instead of gravelled
culture. She wanted pathway upon pathways of
old Europe, lingering in modern cafés and bistros
like an affectionate aftertaste. He
was happy with spoonfuls of instant coffee with
translated copies of a country he would never see.
To him, a French poet in English
was just about the same as a
French poet in French.
He knew that wasn't true, of course.

But the point was to get across the idea of
a Little Paris in his Somewhere. Just as he had an
idea of her in the movies she shared; where
she would awkwardly appear as bits and pieces
of dialogue, sceneries, soundtracks and end-credits
injected into his laptop weekends atop his bed.
He knew her as old romance films on USBs.
It wasn't quite her, but he still liked the idea of it.

He liked ideas, and ideas alone
were more than enough for him.

To her, ideas were restless things
to be beaten into submission.

And so she endlessly beat life's piñata
with a stick of dream,
and hoped to find a plane ticket
amongst the false candies.

She's still swinging.


  V.

He couldn't stop her and he didn't try.
At the very least, he admired her charm;
the zest and gusto of her swing.

But she tired easily. And he didn't want
her to be tired.

Sometimes her laughter would burst into her
and she'd forget about ambition, forget about success.
Sometimes she would just bite into her own sweetness
like if a rose could smell itself. She loved her red,  
and was more intimate with her petals than her pulse.
Just as how she knew Paris better
than this Somewhere.

He thought she was crazy.
But so did she.
And they argued about this because
She thought he was crazy.
But so did he.

And so,
they disagreed about agreement
every day.

On a good day she would present a vicious smile,
the next paragraph in her never-ending thesis
that he doesn't intend to stop reading,
but somehow hasn't even started.
He never will.

On a bad day... well, a bad day
would lead to the end of a verse.


  VI.

They would always eventually get over a bad day.

Coldness takes effort; warmth does not.
The knew this, but warmth often became
an uncomfortable singeing of their safety.
They ran at the thought
of such possibilities like tiny girls
from tiny spiders. Neither wanted to put
that eight-legged flame into a jar, but
somehow they both expected butterflies.

The ecosystem is such for good reason,
and that reason is balance.
Spiders and butterflies both constitute
that effortless, life-affirming warmth.

They dance around that truth as it is a bonfire.
Sometimes they even look bright at it. But never,
never do they touch that little Paris, that little flame;
their little flame, their little Paris.
Because that love is meaningless meaning,
and neither of them wants to be, or feel, wrong.
Even if they'd be wrong together.

Their hands never meet in that fire.
Their souls never burn in night's ecstasy.
And they are almost never born,
until tomorrow, when they smile once again,
and dance.


Come online loser.

nothing bothers me more than people who say they have found god.
no one has found god.
life is not about finding god.
"GOD" is intangible and not something we can grasp,
but we pretend to.
people put quotes around his words
and then put those words in his mouth
they string ideas of her into beads and crosses -
what exactly are  you clinging to?
people don't know.
we are too small
and we are not wise enough.
god is the whole universe.
god is nothing.
god is a tree, a bird, a thought.
god is a little boy with a piece of candy stuck in his hair,
an artist in a garret,
a dog on a cushion,
a girl in an alley.
i don't believe that god has abandoned the church.
i believe that the church has abandoned god.
i don't believe in my catholic roots.
i don't believe in christianity.
i don't believe in buddhism.
i don't believe in islam.
i don't believe the bible.
i don't believe the priests, the shamans, the medicine men.
i don't believe the trappings we place around god
(our weak ideas of her,
our sorry attempts to define him).
i believe that god is people
god is rain, god is the sun
god is the night air
god is the words on paper
god is the paint on canvas
god is creating, god is being, god is gone.
god is here, now, and everywhere
and i only call her god because i lack another name for him.
it has no name.
i understand this
or i think i do.
god knows me intrinsically
or not at all.
god loves infinitely and sees to the depths of humanity
or else god is old, decrepit, and alone
curled in a corner of the world
trying to shut out the mayhem of his earth
(what have i done?).
god cringes at our killings
rejoices in our births,
or is vengeful, red, and full of war and death.
god is spring, summer, and fall.
he is the snow in winter, she is the birdsong
at my window.
she is multitudes and she is one
wildly insignificant
and all-knowing being.
she is the creator, the destroyer, the lover.
she is nature, she is earth,
she is people,
she is the industry, the tapestry, the travesty.
she is love, she is me.
she is loss, she is you.
she is life, she is them.
and i love her,
as anyone loves her -
if you can love an energy,
an idea,
the ungraspable concept that a grain of sand
is the same as the greatest mountain in the world.


but i don't presume
to know her.

You know this boy for a minute. And still you kiss like long lost friends.
He doesn’t sing. He is beneath the landslide, maybe in a champagne sky.
You miss him. In that moment he is there and he is not.
And softly he pulls you in, but is he not ungraspable memory? A woman-made construct like time. Like love.

My thoughts
whirl about
like a sudden
gust.

You are
to me,
as the restless wind
is to the
petals of a flower;

fleeting,
out of reach,
ungraspable.

The world is a massive and untouchable beast, its rolling hills and sharp jutting mountains expand ever tauntingly against the vision of our eyes. Knowing full well we cannot truly explore the vastness and strange diversity of this blue pearl. So when compared to the unfathomably Godlike terrain of the universe we all stare in awe wondering what beauty and destructive natures it holds. Comparable our own gem twinkles in the sky ever fleeting next to millions upon millions of dancing stones and raging suns, even our own Sol is dwarfed, even made insect like to that of greater gasses throwing tendrils of blood red flames in all directions. We are but a speck, a stranger curiosity to the universe than the universe is as strange a curiosity to us. And beyond all this, all these dancing stones and despite our size our pirouettes and twirling lines of silk send the vast nothingness into a daze. For the universe is great and unfathomable and impossible we too are impossible. For we carry…
Life.

And that in itself is special enough to warrant wonder and amazement, but just like the ever expanding size of the universe the earth digs even deeper to the unthinkable. Seven billion men and women walk on these paths of man made concrete and Earth’s dazzling dirt and harsh ruddy mud and sand, all spread across the four corners of our home. We have made beautiful concepts such as honour, curiosity, family and love, we have raised buildings and amazing structures to honour these concepts and their brilliance. We harnessed the beauty of earth and shaped it into something even the universe cannot hope to recreate without our help.

But…
I still can’t understand something. I can grasp what many cannot - which I should think of as a illuminative and enriching gift - but i still cannot understand one thing; a strange being born from the universe somehow more amazing and diverse than our mother Earth.

And that's you. You are something that I absolutely cannot grasp, you in my eyes overshadow the infinite universe, and I am mad because I cannot for the life of me figure it out. Maybe it's because of your personality; your swings from happy to sad and everything in between, not unlike the diversity of earth, your beauty mimicking the glistening diamond seas, meadow fields and sunlit jungles that blaze with heat. The way you speak is like chirping birds and the wind rolling against fluttering bronze whistles. When you walk into a room it seems in a couth way everything seems to revolve around you, as if - and pardon my pun you were the Sol of the room and only i could see it. Maybe it's because just like Earth you have the potential to carry life and create something that just like Earth can never be replicated, your individuality and that of your possible child sends me into a crazed wonder of whether that's even fair to other women. Maybe it's because despite all the dancers in the world when you dance to me you are the most elegant even if it's not objectively true. But maybe it’s because you just seem too impossible, too great to be true. The physical embodiment of all the qualities that make Earth - Earth.

But maybe it's not even that. I think after assessing it I may know why I can’t understand the most amazing thing that floats around you taunting my vision and heart.

It’s that in defiance of the fact that you are an ungraspable demigod I still managed to steal you from seven billion people. From the earth, even from the universe itself. Against the wishes of millions it is I - a lowly man - that claimed your heart. I think it dazzles me so that I could grasp you from when I thought of you as ungraspable, I think it dazzles me how a being as small as you can still stand fast against floating entities of amazement like the Earth. I think it dazzles me how you laugh and sing, how you’ve mastered your own voice and the four stringed instrument that in my opinion should be named string full sound pan, but instead is dubbed ukulele. I think it dazzles me anytime you say you love me and just accept that my manhood can sometimes be too fragile to say it back. I think it dazzles me how you laugh at all my jokes - even the ones that in all respect don't even deserve a reaction. I think it dazzles me how you always listen and always remember when compared to me i'm always distracted and have the memory of an elegant goldfish. I think it dazzles me that in this world that is so cold and so unforgiving in which I sometimes find hard to grasp and instead turn apathetic too you still manage to dazzle me.

You dazzle me and it's the most annoying and frustrating thing in the world. You confuse me and make me question absolutely everything, there is no peace when you're around. You always have me on my feet and you always challenge me with your love. So please…

Never stop dazzling me.

shattered hands, ribboned skin
blood-soaked, sliding down
the unforgiving edges
of ungraspable beauty
     keep on reaching, kid...
     that's what heaven's for

Why is everything see-through in the city?
Bars, cafes, shops, offices - all bare their naked witness to the contents inside
While wealth once chose to hide
Its faces from the masses
It has now found a more effective method of suppression:
Why disguise what you can make others want?
Show them,
Let them see what they could have,
Flaunt it to their willing eyes
And they will follow
The ringing of that hollow bell of 'want'
To their mass graves.

Don't get me wrong,
I don't think anyone is better off here.
Tell me the city suits floating
Like moths to the burnished flame of their local mall
Pulled into its glittering radiance after a long days'
Deathly work to find some comfort in consumption
At the blow-dry parlour or a watch glittering like a cricket in plastic grass
Aren't suffering like the rest of us.

There is no winning here.

Although it may appear that way to you
Through glistening expanses of blue-green
We're all/drowning/in this/sea of desire/together.


When I emerged from Wren's haven
(Imprint of ashes still traced in my skin)
I didn't know where I was.
I couldn't understand how I had come here from where I had been,
How the two could lie so close
To each other.
In this space.
One seemed so other
But not as I expected.
Raised all my life to believe in the tangible
Suddenly that was what seemed unreal,
Ungraspable in its absurdity
After the close communion of a ritual I could only ape,
And even then in disobedience.

How have we come to this place
Where we live in such
False freedom
Chasing our own tails
Consuming our energies
With mere consumption?

There is so much more




When we rejected that which rang false
We supplanted it with another idol.

Slavery is recognised by its outcomes,
Not its tones, it's overtures, it's address.

Where is our freedom not to live in *******
To money?
(That great power whom nobody controls and none can predict,
Which works in mysterious ways and gives us this day our daily bread.)

Why can't we live without it?
I hate this subservience / servitude it has imposed on us
Where every action word and meaning ends in its
Judgement / Answer

Where every day it's meaning grows
Even as it retreats from us in shadowed figures and
Ethereal locations;
Where each pound note is the holy scripture of our existence.

We live by its rules and none but it
Shall determine if we can enter
The Kingdom of Heaven

(That 5* Palace full of virgins).



I've never been to Las Vegas.
A mountain of money in a desert never held much appeal to me.

We count, calculate, compare
If greater, thanks aloud in joy
If lesser, work, fight, beg

A life measured in numbers
Negative, minute, millions
But life begins at infinity

Not a number not a count
Of mind more real than numbers
Ungraspable, priceless, gifted

The work and joy is to know
The fight is to diminish to empty
For the less I am the more I am

I was born robbed of my maternal language,
That crucial bundle of Heart’s pillars
and ribs.

The one that makes you forget
What even words or images are
worth for,
The one that shaped what sense I hold,
And the one who built me
from mere ashes
When I couldn’t even have my eyes
for God, before the first of times.

I’ve searched through more than a dozen
of them so far,
those which humans throw and throw,
force, upon me,
and each time one comes
when the victory seems at last
only for me to find
I have nothing else in my hand
than the smell of footsteps long gone
in the sand and dirt.
Though a half of my plucked out
ribs remain,
which is Poetry that ever wants me,
tongue carries,
that which cannot be
undermined nor explained,
I limp, maimed, without my own tongue
to claim.

And from that search my love though
for the language made its birth.
Possibly the yearning turned into arousal
of wonder catching, affection lapping.

I went back to the Language,
a veritable person I make of it,
I gave it the right of a name,
characteristics
And I am all those questions
directed towards it.

By the script of E.J. Koh’s letters of mother,

How to express in Korean, English,
or any other language
how we miss one dearly
or how the distance shapes itself?

How does language create us
and makes us become
what we are truly deep inside?

How does it decompose us
at our lowest and the highest,
of the state and one’s expressing?

Especially when the Word, at times,
though so futile unreliable,
is the only thing we have left,
like Dreams?

And if you ask me now,
with so much tongue inheritance
already making my stance in “To Be”,
which mortal speech the most beautiful is?
You can’t. for how can I choose?
French, the violet whisper?
Spanish, flaming blades in Llorona’s tears?
English, a parting ship in eloquent observance?
Italian, a cigarette night in a local conversation in lush green?
I cannot. For, what choice?
You could also ask me which of the stars
I love the most: I can’t say.
Each is so similar to other yet not,
though the brightest might not
be the dearest,
the middle one might not be the further one and the intimate arousal for all
that abstract and ungraspable
makes your feelings so confused
and beautifully mad
as if you had polyamory
with many persons at once,
couldn’t get rid of any of them,
choose only one,
yet each one of them has something
the other does not.

Every exchange of a language in mind
is that of our person,
even more of Poetry
I derive myself from in feelings & images,
an exchange of puzzles, schemes,
as if going through a ballroom
full of diversely dancing people
and once you have to step through them dancing waltz to pass
and then dancing tango.

The fall of the Babel was the moment
when that maternality of Speech
shattered into alien yet same
breaths, sacrifices, work of hands
and transit,
and ended up so rich
yet so lacking in its “magna carta”

So, if it all ends always as the same,
If it always leaves heart ripped,
If I can have it all yet none I want,
If it’s the same mortal thing
in codes shrouded...

If in this realm, the story ends
and starts alas,
tell me:

What choice of speak
do you even think
I still have?

when they have become
all but non-existent
flaky leather fastly flaking
into ungraspable dust

one day you might
notice on a path or
piece of land how an
errant playful wind
is whirling some dust
round and round
now imagine a jovial tune
hands clapping in accompaniment
as your feet cut a step to
the whirling whirling whirling
of the lonely dust dancing

O dancing dust!
O dancing shoes
In whirling dust incarnate!

I became accustomed to the simple life. To the way that boys liked it when I ran my fingers through their hair and toyed with their belts. The way that coffee tasted dull without sugar, and the way that the newspaper was always delivered at three minutes past seven. Doorbells all had the same melody and I was required to tip the waiter seventeen percent of the bill.
       And that's why you scared me. Because complexity followed you like the smoky tail of a cigarette, always near and entirely ungraspable. I couldn't see you as simple, and I was frightened yet intrigued by the way that you reminded me of the ocean; swallowing both the moon and the sun in the same day.

Are these dreams self inflicted?
Am I addicted to exhaustion?
Are these dreams coincidences?
Am I doomed on the instances that the universe hand picks?

These dreams are a manifestation of my worries, my fears
My tears are a 3D dictionary- a physical translation of horrors every sundown

These dreams drive me to ******* insanity
While vanity and shallow diseases plague those around me

Screaming, crying, shaking
They're breaking down my walls, painting bags under my eyes and a scowl on my face

I'm desperate for alleviation
In a nation so obsessed with pills, somewhere there's a capsule in a haystack

Like an unsolvable math question
A lesson ungraspable, darkness clouds my mind and feeds on my light

The darkness behind my eyes swirling with unfamiliarity
A rarity that I wake up not undead

I'm screaming for help in a sound-proof room
A bloom of skulls instead of flowers

My sheets are painted blood red
My bed never a place of solace

I'm forever drowning in a sea of unrest
Forces doing their best to keep me under

I'm spluttering, hyperventilating
My thoughts always contemplating whether to pull all nighters for the rest of my nights

I'm eating myself alive and no one seems to mind
As this kind of infliction is only in my head.

In the most unusual manic-panic creep,
Wildly lurking behind every corner,
The Shadow was about to recover some ungraspable but always constantly desired idea..

A fantasy, a darker shade of fantasy: a fun fetish.
Or, perhaps, could it be foolish fanciful notions?
This fully torked delusion can be a haunting mirage.  
A make believe vintage slogan ghost from generations past.
That worn out American Dream. That Life.

THE LIFE:
-Free from the routine confusion and disorder-
Dreamed by all but known only by creatures who dream of other more sophisticated things.

Silenced but still flailing at grasping the point or any and all major traffic signs,
the Shadow returned all the acquired mixed-matched pieces and useless information slowly..

I remember because it was a autumn night.
Leaves were falling and there were trees white with moonlight.

It was a cool night overflowing with mysterious excitement that unforgettably changed the mellow quite in all bright lights.
Suddenly there was a new bustle among the stars as the speed of light left a stirring in the darkness.

-A secret above trees carried on the wings of winds-

This covert paradox of milky way wonder experienced when he kissed this girl-was a vivid spectacle of unutterable visions never mentioned but still loudly exuding a slinky lust.

This was a soul cleansing need,
a physical miracle,
***** deeds done dirt cheap overdosing religious experience with every swelling ******!

These are the divine musings of the Creator, my Creator.
These are the ideas of any other brave soul who decide to capture their essence in moments.

For a moment at one point in time, these sacred thoughts belonged to God.

1
We read the Titans in a ***** binding, stitches
Crossing in inspiring genetic code and though
Sweet winds in Elysian plans blow, peppered
On the fertile mind, great poets sowed these realms of Hell
Petite scholars pass cursorily, in attempt or ignorance
This classroom won’t appreciate, for years behind, years until.

There was substance in their parting wrists, or ninth ring
Of some divorce in descending rings of darkness and liquor,
And binding chains clasped too numbed from vacillation
I find the journey down their spiral, sad but beautiful
Who wakes with them on either side: design, ebullient suicide?

They lie before me, still vivacious, I lay on looking
In their papery autopsies revealing nothing but scars,
Nothing but the inexplicable, the inescapable prophesy of war
So distant, papery, eternally recurrent and so beyond us men,

Did you sacrifice yourself for the poem, little shred of self
For the gleam of light of day in time of the beloved belated?
What caught your heart, the one you slain, that looks past us all
But moves beyond tears—something ungraspable you had to shed
Life to attain, whose mockery was impetus, just as it was bane.

Pray tell, does it hurt to, in time, become absurd?
A living contradiction, a multiplicity, tiny strings, and blood
Black as ink and nihilism, but swooning, structured, and romance
Pure dialectic, two bodies of verse coincide; a black hole
Dark and Worse. The ultimate catharsis of poetry, lived in every line.

#2
There were abysses in those falling leaves,
Fullness of a lighted walk, irreclaimable annihilations
And empty existences. Now, we write them
Write them down, on these falling loose leaf scraps.
But what has been, is smashed to bits, eventually withering
Eventually splits; yet, something of history is fed from their breast
And we know the miseries that were forewarned.
Ever shall we follow, now that you’re died and died ever on?

To Hell with Socrates; art’s no imposter, but the rudiments
In fact it rears us philosophers, asks and answers all questions
We’re all philosophers: we know what knowledge denies,
Laughs at, and awes: the sole thing nihil cannot belie
Therefore, the pantheonic blood is spilled and I
Drink headily. Draw the same course and dark spirit
That plucks the ferns pushed through the crack
From the grains of aged monuments, past frisson of
Repeated denouement and Time’s cynosure has lent.
The poets may suffer but know what we don’t
And die just to find the panaceaic solution to death
For they, they will never die, and we will pass, unleft.

Intoxicated from the weight of euphoria,
Silence drips viscously into the soul
Until drowning is no longer a fear,
But an option.

Feet wet from nostalgia
Of ungraspable motions,
Time rests heavily on dewed eyelids...

The soul buries itself further.

I let go this moment
A bird lets go a branch to fly
No fear or need to cling
Despite free-falling through the sky

I stop having birthdays
Giving birth to something broader
Falling through my fingers
As ungraspable as water

I let go gravity
An astronaut bounce on the moon
A cosmic letting go
Meditate to Pachabel’s tune

I release attachments
To savor the moment sweetly
I get out of my way
Casting my shadow completely

I let go everything
When I let go my mother’s hand
Feeling new connections
With strangers in strange lands

I release resistance
From things I once just ran
Bucking up with courage
Acting as if I really can

I let go the future
No fear of how I have to die
Breathing in this moment
Tick tock, time flies past in reply

Where are the saints?
Where are the Holy men?
Where are the ones without wanting?

So filled with the unceasing Love of God
They have both His feast and festival
All the time?

Forehead kissing the ground In humble surrender to that which could never be claimed as “mine” or “yours”
but Lives in the land of Beyond
in Graces eternal belonging.

Who forfeit it all
to the ungraspable, unstoppable, uncontrollable Roaring of the
Absolute Unborn Cosmic Form of Love,
that so desires your salvation He destroys you completely so that you may Know Him in Truth and not imagination.

Where are the ones,
Who knocked at the door of their own Heart, and who don’t know whether they were let in, or He was Let out

the ones who have been captured by the Keeper of All Love
who have heard Him whisper inside of them, softly, in the stillness of their Lotus Heart - singing
- I am yours and you are mine -
Leaving behind the question “who’s voice was that?  And surrendering their mind and all Brahmas creation at His feet
Finally to roll down the hill laughing as the spark of eternity within dances to a tune that comes from everywhere all at once

Where are the ones so filled with divine rapture, they have entered the Placeless Place of no return and emerged - now - completely submerged - can think of nothing but Him!  

The ones who know that we are fed by the sweet Doer of all in our Fasting and when He offers us Dessert! Never taking credit for the Love he offers through us.

The ones who live without shame and let their heart go naked into the Radiant river of love

Where are the ones who’s minds surrendered and hearts thoroughly emptied and plowed
have left the land of desire unmet,
of tug of war with pleasure and pain,
who know the grace of receiving an answer to the defiant longing for the Lord that will take NOTHING less than Him, who have cried the tears that touch Gods heart, and in anguish sung out for MotherFather a sound that echoed so deep within they felt the Holy waking....

who know - through Grace -  
the Love that is Divine.

Once reclothed and restored,
Outward appearance still concealed truth,
Her heart was elsewhere not here,
Someplace between hate and fear,
A space of ungraspable power and agony,
Few fear for few would ever near its core,
Willingly, still,
More and more initiates wormed their way towards,
That vacuous chamber,
It's mine she said,
It's mine!

The best things in life
Are those which lack purpose.
There is no reason to go for a walk,
To watch the stars, shine in the sky
Or view the morning sunrise.
Yet we still perform these actions,
And find comfort
In the ungraspable benefits.

So here's the mature
expression of a catch
flopping on deck.
Who could bear the
promise of more, from
where this one came?
Grin, multitudinous and
mawkish--an ungraspable
slick silver verse stuck to
puckering lips.
A face grown flat, by roles
played in common waves,
eyes placed for scanning
both sides of the sea.
You've even succeeded in
making Jesus seem fishy.

In the mirror of my soul
Nothing appears as foul
I glimpse things stable
Some facts Conceivable
My voyage from one place to another
Often escapes ungraspable future
Symbolizes calm serene postures
But at every threshold brings
Disasters mingled with depressions
Which sticks as tags
And I have to release it from my soul's bag
Soul is a mirror and a bag
Where I can see my reflection
And in the bag search for my possessions

I don't know who you are, or where you are,
But something in my heart tells me that you
Are waiting somewhere safe, beneath the stars,
Also seeking, having no single clue.
Maybe I saw you in the sea of crowds,
And smelled the scent of mystery,
Passing me by so quietly like clouds,
Continuing my path upon the sea.
Maybe you are a friend, a wife or mentor,
Or maybe both; It is ungraspable,
To know the future now. I will explore
Everything for now that is practical.
    And so I'll live, from all suspicions free,
    Whoever and where my soulmate may be.

I have this new light about me
It glistens
I listen
No single memory can stop me
From freeing my feet at night
And driving through my mindscape
Empty
Yet full of color and every
External Sense I could
Imagine to be true
So it must be something real
My images are projected senselessness
Rich and simultaneously void of
Feeling
So touchable this
Ungraspable and malleable palpable void
Exhumes flavor.
I awake unmoved
Having been everywhere presented
I recall half of nothing
And each day goes by
Where I pass places I’ve been
Changed, structured beyond definition
I’ve been there once before
And it was not in this waking life
It’ll have this recognizable feel
Of Complete void demolished
Beyond my ability to comprehend anything
But what I know it to be
In a place where my feet haven’t touched
The ground
And I’m quietly obtaining ability
To create a world outside of my knowledge
Of what is true in
This waking state
I’ve been here once before, and it was different
My senses are not immune to the trickery
So I fall back
Into another dream
And wonder where I’ll go for the first time
That I’ll reunite with tomorrow
Only to find it’s honest form
And I won’t be able to help but smell the air I created just the night before.