And then...

Been dying to tell you the secret-
just like it is
Everything is in fractals-not by structure
but in grid-in-side-grid-space holders,
a map of anywhere on parchment.
Pores perhaps provide a relief-map.

Fractal as a symptom of a laser aimed at
a prism, facet or side-effect, escaping only where it burrows out from
hazy photons penetrating angles,
becoming-White. There.
Be coming color-full.
Describe what violet looks like to you?
Is it between two shades?
Tell me how to do the steps for the
choreography of light,
or memorize algorithmic sets
without giving away the Bigger picture
as fractals demonstrate, inevitably infinite.

They have kept me quiet long-
enough to forget what was wrong
to begin with.
They asked, finally, what I see-
They didn't-
know the origin of the light.

It is on.
Won't you come in-
(secret)
I have seen the missing pieces

between us-the dates do not align.

Painting By Sigmund Klempner (1867–1941) (Christie's) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Post: Meridian

What happens at night
to the air?
What is this
chemical cocktail
we absorb through osmosis,
take in-minus the photons
that cause thoughts to
sink
so heavily
and their intentions
stand so tall?

In this darkness,
we witness,
the end of days
and feel time
reeling
felt more forcibly by
the ever-changing set of
constellations that arise
in our latitude, or even-more
so by the
nocturnal notions as in
phases of the moon making
destinations
always
revolve around us.

By blending into
these dim hues,
our blue veins
resemble the Empyrean skies or the
dirty paint water in a glass jar,
wherein, all
blends, naturally
together to visit the heart.
This is all right.
It is only a subtle shift
in tone and pressure.
The blood always finds its
dew point.

These feelings will all
evaporate
with the sun-
rise.


Painting by Edwin Henry Landseer, 'A scene from A Midsummer Night's Dream' c. 1848-1851 in  [Public domain].

A Lee alee

The moan returned, and it always came at precisely the wrong time. 

In these conditions, concentration pulls away and tapered focus spreads

its photons in flooding streams of white thought.

The wind knows this and is relentless, always. Careless 

to human needs for calm and order, real food and clean water, it blows- 

every which away.

The rising whine coming in all corners should have reminded us, nothing

is sealed completely. Same never remains cremated-

change or would be by the same name. Ashes. Should anyone notice. 

It is justified, to claim not to hear, to feel no steam rise, to believe 

this arrangement is permanent or static. Hope is clean energy.

Electricity is not a friend.

Dear me. It could never end. A break, a breath, and shriek, 

its thick harmonic resonance extending its reach in waves. 

The breeze dances its heart out down in the valley. 

It will twirl itself out haphazardly and we will see 

no steps in the routine. This storm was not predicted. 

Every light word goes out the window. 

The pain sank through.

Painting by Jerônimo José Telles Júnior [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.