a bloom not I sniff on its wax
yet soap in its name.
Is chime an echo
shuttling between shores clenched and surfs wrinkled?

Forthcoming. Impending. Violating.
Could thou help me to say this?
that I was in out of my depth.
Over-night granola, Mixed-berry fizz, Planet-Traveler hues.
Could thou let me shelve vacancy?
that I’d be sobbing for its mess.
Signature Choco cake named here sole with latte all around globe
some taste brewed here sole.
How hot and heavy and hazy
this existence savors.
But—
there is Thank you, the simple words that turns us into lamplighters
who walk each other home, through the night never seems to end
fluxing, always, always. after all.
before all.

A beam of apathy.

Hithernay I lapse in the liquid fear
of drifting afar from all flowed through me, a terrifying truth
that strikes, falters, and aches.
On shaft of daylight I look fine
but look behind my eyes, everything
is new until it’s old.
An osmosis of remembrance wafts across the lake frozen
I gazed tears streaming down its face
and was told: every metamorphosis a co-passenger brought you
continues the voyage with you on behalf of him.

Would I get over it?

Anon I find the galactic city model of the mind
too cold to defy
as I expend three minutes hesitating shall I do it or not
that could be done within the three minutes
so it’s left undone, with an ongoing groan.
I yearn for rationality is too spiny and messy and illusory
like a broadcast of self-deed that never ever pitch a well guess.
But—
nothing come decipherable until I seek
to return with hands empty of dictions indecipherable.
I love the debris of word that I don’t understand, that
I build brick by brick.
Euphoria stumbles in what is
and what isn’t here.

Chimeric.

This time, at ease I walk into the place scrawled by unfamiliarity
of all kinds, giddy, amorphous, variegated,
not without my muse.
Hovering, the Wayfinder exhales
an attuning overture,
an astringent taste of cacophony.
“Free is the feeling they can’t take from thee.”
a rustle not I shivered in
yet took a leap towards.

Through the bullet-spiked walls of unseen wars
analogy hums a thousand suns
as warriors bury a thousand letters.