Being out on a limb, head suspended like greenery such that the outlook is open, cavernous, free
space of which the mind may take time to fill-in;
tossed about are emotional attribution,
acceptance of awe,
and the looking up to tighten a grip you just realized connects you.
The tangential gaze across the horizon deepens
the gradient in which red being fed by the colloidal amber woven of the purest fibrils of energetic white was issued by a stolid juxtaposition
of darkness behind it all.
So, you’re apparently gathered there as one ball of brain
beneath the orb that hangs,
presumably enveloped, nay, dissolved, as one large ebbing droplet in the void.
Was there a moment in time when you size the limb up before hurdling full-weight or had ancestry done it for you?
Was it relinquishing the mind to the know and body following no command?
That moment, whether chosen or imminent, opens space,
frees your fibrils for further coalescence across space-time.
You may warm yourself in a radiance.
You may transfer it through your efforts of the field you’re on, humanity.
When you’re in a dark room, a pinprick shows a subtle amount of light through drawn curtain, but close in on that hole to look through and see the entire sun.
Have you ever had an inkling that inked all over you?
Did you find direction by misguided thought, knowingly?
Something, something fuck on something along the lines of fuck off fucking.
Pure sorrow. A knife edges its way to dullness. That’s when you’re cut the worst.
I imagine when blood boils to the retina, your world turns gray. A horse has a cloth drawn overhead as blood lets through castration. They are visionaries in monochrome. They see in the shade of a sputtering instinctual paintbrush flecking. Not a color. Each thing brought to mind, just a tidbit of the color mosaic. How else is olive drab?
I’ve got a grin that stays secret in its absurdity. It leads me to a congeniality that’s as rooted as the tinges of nerves firing next to plasma intestine, clandestine vessel has a lot of thoughts with which to wrestle.
I took a day to forage, intently did i peruse-
a forest floor revealed to me in vastly numbered hues
Drawn to deeper quarters, I found the mother lode of ‘terelles
but knew full well a few steps back sat jack - O! His malicious tales!
Beckonin’ buttons be a bargainin’ bane, I’d wager not a’ lackin’ certainty
but I’d capture the light as it rendered sight of their charm without it hurtin’ me.
“Bad or good?" Thought you'll have, though judgement doth dishevel.
All are inherently great, if you will, but a simmerin’ is an end to the revel.
- Mind o'mine
