187. The Protagonist & The Italics

he plucks ripe pauses,
& hangs strips of silence
to dry in the sun.

he touches
the brittle pale yellow sheaves
and they crumble into powdered memories;
the rest -
he pickles in a jar
of spicy dreams.

light years,
are not a whim.
light years,
are not a part of the recipe.
they are just traitors,
by design-
much like
the ringlets of smoke,
he blows into the air.

he steals a half-baked night
& saves it in his closet.

he does not notice anything amiss.
well, he had too many to begin with,
left behind in admiration
by voyeur winds -
the ones he stunned to silence.

(for
he refuses to play
by the script)

he
is the script
inane & convoluted
while his audience
watch with bated breath
though they know the story

(well, he does not)

his audience -
a jar of pickled dreams
& a heap of powdered memories
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