I'm waiting for the sky to coruscate purple,
shade of space from far origins, fall
downside up the liquid truth, stripped
bare of God-crafted feelings- how unright
to be human, misplaced in this universe,
stolen for the design that failed,
conditions which unholied us, concreted
obstruction of regrets, dissolves in a voice
orchestrating harmony to my nerves.

Some like to look at bronzed photos
through glass, magnifying glass, blue glass,
obscured glass, it's their crème brûlée of
nostalgic preservation, though time is wasted
and lost out in the expanding moby-sphere,
as pieces for a new chronologist, I see into
a kaleidescope of memories, entrapped time
that is lived and relived, offset the helium
of moments which escape unburdened by
the calamity composing our lives.

If the neon left my apartment, a sanctuary
of thoughts will crawl out under the door,
free as smoke rings of youth, every kiss a
betrayal of that first phantom kiss, released from
the black hole of remembrance, my touch
holographic prints, tranposed years, dark
that seem like yours relinquished along
a breath held for what could have been.

Outside this room, only the paralysed move;
by the sting of purpose, for themselves,
lies or laws, and all that's believed,
In the end see the face of myth, the
anthropomorphic Man, and apply the brush
strokes of lessons in pure fragments, until
it all fuse into one conscious energy,
a magnificence transcending the cosmos,
in time shall shrink back to creation.

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