The fire crackles, a pernicious impel upon
S'mores, they bubble down. Some fully succumb to flickering.
Upwards: the smoke phantasms, interpositioning itself against the void like
a dream, or a moth, akin to the others’ eyes—glassy as they are. We watch
a scarab melt
like
sunlight on oil
amid ersatz stones. They are glassy.
In front, a window darkens as somewhere,
a bulb silences its drone, quieted by an unthinking digit while
we repose the fire, each soothing into our own half-cast catechism
yet still tensed like a pause
between stanzas, still
I still am. I am quiet now, my lungs become a wadi
simmering perception down to port reduction. Let it momentarily palm savoring
till it drips between cilia, leaving the blood-red residue of judgment
then dried nostalgia.
The questioning begins; I hope someone can ask if I am
happy. Friend, allow me to extol the virtue of serenity—but presently I am a closed orchid (il)luminating, a pertho filled, my canyon willed to the brim by presence, pure present.
S'mores, they bubble down. Some fully succumb to flickering.
Upwards: the smoke phantasms, interpositioning itself against the void like
a dream, or a moth, akin to the others’ eyes—glassy as they are. We watch
a scarab melt
like
sunlight on oil
amid ersatz stones. They are glassy.
In front, a window darkens as somewhere,
a bulb silences its drone, quieted by an unthinking digit while
we repose the fire, each soothing into our own half-cast catechism
yet still tensed like a pause
between stanzas, still
I still am. I am quiet now, my lungs become a wadi
simmering perception down to port reduction. Let it momentarily palm savoring
till it drips between cilia, leaving the blood-red residue of judgment
then dried nostalgia.
The questioning begins; I hope someone can ask if I am
happy. Friend, allow me to extol the virtue of serenity—but presently I am a closed orchid (il)luminating, a pertho filled, my canyon willed to the brim by presence, pure present.
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