Just as the colors of Summer
Fade into gentle shades of
Nighttime cerulean and smoke,
The velveteen sky whispers...
A restless secret echoing across
Silent meadows, heavy with shadows
That bleed shrouded consciousness
Into the museum of my thoughts.
Each canvas is made of my skin,
Drawn tight to a bone structure of
A paradoxical girl who's fingertips
Emit a light...
A strong light which used to flow
Like a river over midnight tears
And take me beyond to the realm
Of sensation.
But now, I fall weak before the canvas
Into a slumber as deep as time.
Billowing cloudbursts of paint in hues
Of sorrow white and southern red
Rain upon my resting body
On the floor.
The ghost of my conscience comes
To cover me with a quilt patched
In foggy memories, incidentally
Soaked in honey whiskey...
Just as the ghost covers me,
It softly focuses on lips and breathes
"The empirical nature of your thought
Rhymes with sensational control."
Though I venture in and out of
Dreamscapes unknown,
I still hear the sound of the
Wraith in my mind...
Like the somaticism of a beckoning
And lonesome mockingbird calling
In the nightside fields of
What I suppose is peace.
My chest becomes burdened with a sigh,
A decadent and pure intoxication
Of the abstraction of
Reality...
Seven miles above a three inch
Reality.
The Watercolors flood the ever deepening
Hallow of the museum of thoughts,
Drowning the corridors of my mind with
Her liquefied heart.
I have completely lost a piece
Of myself in her forever...
And light [watercolors] flowed from her tender fingertips.
missing [losing] my mind.