. . . if only words

Dust on the Looking Glass

I looked through heavens eye

At my sordid life

What mysteries,

Of which I’d wondered,

Would open themselves to me


When I’d taken the candies

From the kitchen shelf

I’d skulked in the dark corners

And ate them all whole

Did they laugh?

A child’s play?

Or did they crack the whip,

Turned me off my wicked way?


When I’d flew the coupe,

On eagle’s wings

I’d scoured the concrete jungle

Of New Salem’s streets

Of the name I made,

Where they really proud?

About the games I did play,

They could’ve been mad


Perhaps they weren’t

As I grew old and grey

Not Fick and feeble

But sturdy and Sine

But perhaps they were,

Forby, you consider

As she did leave me,

A cold space on the bed


Fragments: Green Sky, Blue Grass

He stares at his reflection in the pool, planted, spell-bound, a new narcissus. Only it’s not his face, he feels—it’s the water. Still as a gem, shimmering a soft, starry glow twinkling into the air and winking at the trees. Colours are caught waltzing over surface, stroked in strong swaths, all melted together and frozen for an everlasting second.

A gentle blade of leaf perches on and ripples the pool. Now he can tear his eyes from the  driven frenzy colours. Again, he smells the cornucopia of floral essences. Magnificently ethereal, they swim into his sinus, warming and numbing his face.

He lets his ears roam, collects the reverberating whispers of wind. It is a birds hum. It’s a branches bow strum. It is an orchestra played by seas of grass, conducted by the sylphs.

It’s too much.

He falls on the bed of blue grass and laughs as the soft sensations creep under him—a mischievous band of pixies swishing feathers for a coin. They stop; he laughs no longer. His skin numbs itself to the sensation. It has to; it fears losing touch. Too much. He fears loosing himself. As his senses are bombarded, he fears shattering to glisten-y glass, and drowning in the cloudless green sky.

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