We follow every rainbow nonsensically
with alienated wonderment. Our autistic faltering
is mellifluously further then lovelorn murmurs radiant. I am spellbound, by the somnolent twinkling
of the last ersatz fairy, which sits beleaguered on the other side of the glass
blinking, between my disfigured fingers.
My hand clutches the punctured, however nostalgic lid, as I turn the
wheel of time forward, because only speculative abstracts learned to shadow
me. I never studied to care for the faux
fairies, only cook vegetables, hug you back when you hug me, and seed the
revolution. I toe the edge of the
Chasm: For Those Who Dreamt,
a place where people reunite
with bewildered obsessive compulsives severely deficient in lucid surreal. Everyone
knows that one must forever fall to find a future that is not fickle. Gravity reckons, that the only direction with
loyalty is down. My limbs are the tail,
of the gigantic blue whale, hurtling into the vastness, diving too sincerely
into the winking bluish chatoyant of denouement. My erstwhile felicity buried deeply within
the labyrinthine sun worn creases of vapid eyes.
The sweat surfeits slowly along frozen brows, deceiving our tongues,
which licks at them as if they were tears. My curious enchantment, which resembles travail,
shimmers with trepidation, from brackish waters of diminutive mosquito infested
swamps pooled in my palms. The graft of
solemn acrimony overwhelms my mouth; I beguile tepid retch into the void from
my third mouth. I smear away the
vestiges of blood-flecked puke with a hand bearing self-made stigmata.
