Poesia

Beneath the sun,

watching

the insides of my eyelids,

bull-teasingly red,

thoughts

grow & mellow

into a strawberry

jam.

Flesh and life paints

dreams on a bloodied canvas,

savoring the prancing wind which rolls

over my docile arms like

shapeless snow, scattered leaves swept

into it like wishes.

The growing heat

falls in waves,

pulsing,

recurring gifts from the sun,

and I melt into

another self-conscious.

Guided by everything but my eyes,

a new-fangled vista floats over

a bloodshot horizon, swallowing

up the preconceived.

Apple-bearing clouds stroll

the fields of cerulean clarity

while others remain flat like

stickers on a ceiling, leisurely waiting

to be peeled and put to use.

The life beneath comes together

like a verse and a chorus,

pulling in panda & polar bears

among men & sea turtles on

fictitious greens and bunkers.

They commune in silence,

absorbing each moment

like a starving vacuum with

nothing but minds

to clean.

There are no floating lips

condemned to perpetual motion,

the likes that fill our buses,

ride our trains, and

overload the workplace with

wasteful words that the world

could do very well without;

lips without a head

to contain them…

And as the suns passion retreats

into the darkness, as the insides

of these eyelids take on

a darker hue,

my inner world remains,

thankful for the

remnants of a day’s worth.

Although, through it all,

the fear

of what eyes can see prevails

and I wonder if the truth

in reality can ever

fill us with

the vigor of the most common

dream.