. luna
soul . luna
soul
if it were as simple as a raindrop upon the soul, well hell, we’d all be sold... to poetry (or lack thereof) and intimate injustices of the heart(ache). who do I ode this to? you know the game (same, lame, unfame). a scream and a throb away is insanity, a tear and a whisper is oblivion. madness in the middle? yes, but not anger, (isn’t this where I state) inclusive?. multiplicity of personality can be quite gratifying to the ego, but the delicacy of one’s skin is inevitably cliché. ...if I could write a book with this poem... i’d love a personification with all my heart, an image created in my own paradox of thee. an emptiness filled with imagination (fantasy and wishes) drowned with (doomed) reality. to make it delight, whatever I do (or don’t), I’m immersed beneath your thought (sometimes too weak to dream deep). but simple is imagination, falling dull in comparison to
concentration, winding like the brownest path of autumn, like a cat sleeps soundly ‘till stillness won’t suffice. wings of eclectic/electric blue cobalt dust shock even the least curious few (but how can that be?) : the haunted do only perceive. does beauty need comprehension? application for intimacy needn’t be checked at the door, drawing demons down. youthful recluse, hidden again, how do I keep myself myself? crystalline knowledge, “how the faces of love change turning the pages.” In my notebooks of phrases (throw ‘em together, hope it turns out pretty) never in this life have I completed a thing. I want grandma’s great chandelier (as a metaphor), the bookend (stated), the windowsill (implied), coffee table (compound), me (undefined).
[been reading too much Fitzgerald, I apologize]