Last House on the Left
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As maple seeds grow through the subtle grains of grass
My brain is a stain glass window of faint hope-cast
insane
In a frame of past, present and whatever shall remain
Dark..Dark like the meadow of change
Dark like the grey silhouette when it rains
Dark like what’s left for dead still matters
It matters enough to bring pain
I am a doll,
from ₂ to 1 to none
I am a Babushka doll enveloping my own song
The colours of my orchestra are an aurora un-plugged
Amongst torture, I have restored up and restrung what I love
My own cabin of thoughts which hums through the wildest winds n’ dust
Like a fever, to catch
forever young
..
I’m in a marriage with murals for mortar n aerials of fortunate lies
I can move mountains with morality when I breathe in absorption lines
My eyes are like opals open beyond Eris on an easel of sky
In a delicate aisle of endurance swallowed by tangerine tiles
For now my shack shimmers it’s numbers in a luminescent squall
As night or day drifts like a centre fold memorial in my fish bowl
There is only one; oen; ONE field of dreams I sit upon
Imagination; a material or mirage of fortitude and madness split n hung
A gift for some, to sift out something as vivid as freedom and missed love
To get lost is the point, indirectly becoming twisted on a horizon
Fixated on its existence knowing its whispers should leave you enlightened
But it don’t
The air is too thin up here and my circulation has gone numb
The dimming light switch has shrunk to what it never was once
There is only reason left in a sea of colours unseen by much
A queen in a revolving reality de-evolving each mind it touched
Once you remove its literal meaning and direct understand on others
You find that you where always happier back in your own
“poetic justice”
..