I feel stranded beneath rotting sand and black solar ash,
bursting galaxies astronomically far, impossible to catch
into the fine, burnt-sugar of clouds misting my toes, catching my pain like frostbites in silver webs and silver stars
that collide with the ground in brief summers, a tale for another time, embraced in inky tar
I hope to reach so far every bone will stretch until it is scraping the universe
and the roar ripped from beneath every overworked tendon is sent out into a cold, infinite vacuum of space, peering curiously at its ugly birth;
we are nothing, nothing but mere extreme earthworms tentatively poking out of the ground, disturbing a spot of dirt, all so in pain
pink bubblegums popped off of cherry lips and the colours are distorted through a mind gone titanically insane, so
I dream of metal encases meant for smoky, grinning skulls that once dreamed of the impossible, another tell, another tale, another time
like the exhilaration of rainbows bursting across ash-streaked skies, brighter than a thousand flashlights––a butterflies' sublime––and it's a
a salty-sweet second where sound buries itself in a molten core and love is like gumdrops spilling from the sky
I hope, I hope, I hope to catch this second, this moment, this experience of culmination, like a net that scoops up fallen stars
once upon a time
YOU ARE READING
The Book of Fantastical Confusion
Poetry"The most important thing, darling, is to live a fabulous life. As long as it's fabulous, I don't care how long it is." - Freddie Mercury Art, madness and poetry--whatever more could you need? Highest Rankings: #1 in poetry #1 in midnight thoughts #...
