In free form
A raindrop wanders.
Your buds unraveled

A tuft of hair
Glides restlessly along
An undulating chest
Blue taffeta 

Tethered to your wrist
Gently tightened

The shift is complete.
Emotions have been shuffled
Like spry billiard balls.
There is no solace here;
Just attempts to feel
And exhaustion
In the feeling.

Fleeting breaths
Pulsating bosom adrift
Silent corners

Nervous hands clasped
Unto the jagged breasts of
But palpates nothing.
I think,
And I am not.

Little gnomes are aflutter, naked,
And taunt the flightless beasts
Who saunter along
Pasturages unforgiving.

What does it mean
To cry or want to cry
When the spirit remains
Having exchanged its incandescence
For intermittent songs
Of dusk and smoke?

When a soiled fist emerges from the ground
Scarred by his only savior?
When a new day dawns and
A gnome’s wing is shorn
And divided into equal portions
For beast and serpent alike,
And the flightless gnome
Begins to wonder, and worry

Until the hand begins to bloom
And a ladle carrying my porous heart
Is placed within reach
Until your return?

Fill it with your hollow tears
If you must.
Drown it in all matter of
Sublime remembrance
Of a sun that wades along the precipice
In search of a reason
To console this grounded wretch
Back to flight.

Devour the thorned rose of guilt
Recall the dance of the mountaintops
When their skin began to peel on all sides
Revealing compacted stacks of
White heat, smooth and deadly to the touch,
But enough to feel again,
And become.

Art: “Paesaggio blu”
Marc Chagall

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