I hope that behind muted screens of your perspective
the camera roll in your mind performs pensive plays
in translation from neurons to words on a page,
how my thoughts timely trickle into graphite
with your voice between the lines;
reminders to read the fine print.
Ghosts of gradient fingertips left on my waist
guide me by the hip through crowds that fluctuate,
and my instinctual tick without thinking
brings displaced dissonance to the bodies passing by.
Clarity somewhere and somehow promises to replace
the hungover haze in the whites of our eyes,
you know whereabouts to find me
take your grand old time.
In a land of tentative trades I finally understand
that there's no alternative kin carrying my cross
once I wrote in my skin that I am the messenger,
whether I mean to be or not.
Despite where the legs of life may lead
I'll follow foraged scent that lingers leftover
from the places my bones have laid, or will lay;
hanging onto the faith that it envokes the road
back to origins of rhythm flows.
Until then, forgive my tender stature
as I pace the world with a spirit of wonder
kept in my collection the petals of flowers to dry
and my taste for seductively stinging thorns alike.
I'll keep a place warm for you in my killing jar
where lifelines of paradox meet polar extremes
a mirror image of the tissue I've felt scarred
creeps into contorted sheets.
The invitation extended hangs open to grace
conceptualization of right and wrong in grayscale shade
but who stands a mere mortal to dictate a determination
upon Brahman's bountiful empty space?
When stranded from shelter, self avoidance subdued
the unconscious arms race continues until proven out of use.