Dear friends, scholars, and Djinn,
I feel the pandemic wheel. To the salmon sky or the soft yawn as twilights slowly subsides, eating at the cobwebs of sleep. In the palm of my hand: The alchemy of a nod, and the Empress of this sublimation. To know then this atrocious sanity, and the sands by which we wash our feet, and the bluish milk by which our lungs are fed. Nay, none may segway from the albatross of this great expanse without first acknowledging the unblinking pupil of this awe inspiring and paralyzing void. And yet, it is the carnal treatise that we baste this sojourn, it is in the moaning accommodations of Lethe; each held quietly in the arms of her embryonic coo. An infant enchanted by the gurgling paralysis of the pupae suspended in the bath salts of a formidable oblivion.
There is a door here; the stem that holds the bulb of my eye can feel it.
~S~
And waxed the cupid-bow of his lapel.
No color evolves in nature
That cannot be dissolved.
Moss grows a rainbow,
Suffers like a crateful of pistols
Turning yellow in the sun...