[non] s e n s e

i am getting lost in brief moments

i am getting.getting.getting. l o s t

it shouldn't take so long to notice.

:smog city:

poets know

that writes love

and writers --- paint,

to poet beats.

and in the lonely lives of --

art is lost in --

Sky High Cities.

with elbows crossed,

they creep into,

each others lives and -- dream of!

sadder loves -- to spill upon,

in their own indifference's -- they cry out,

for inspiration,

and with the jam of--

their      last     nights loss 

they see the Ivory -- brighter today!

and in the lonely lives of--

art is lost -- in,

Sky High Cities.   

:Time:Moment:Air:Pause:Space:

Moment

 

A glance, a bit, rather,

In your direction,

Was in the mechanical,

Turning and cycling stage,

Of the transition         of my eye.

 

A moment in time was       paused,

For the purpose ---

Of making all things,

Like this        matter.

 

And when in such directions,

A reflex is made at     measured speed,

One finds time to reflect

And purposefully make note,

Not, your image, but the        break,

The line drawn                       in time,

To put down what was before,

And collect air for the after.

Bonjour Le Printemps, Je Veux Porter Toi.

In Affection

In affection won,

Born perfection.

In affliction one,

Sworn addiction.

Oatmeal

A single grain of sand to that of many believers is there. Dry in born splendor and light in weight while young. Further grown into perfect air pockets to deliver a low lullaby. Silver in the exchange of sugars, but a soft reassurance in the presence of durable textures. It mingles amongst the sweeter ones. It asks to stay and sticks like nectar on the best of spring days. In the saddest of senses, it is the best of friends.