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
----------------------
Poetry or something like that... The name says it all, this is plainly an attempt to take my heights of craziness into the lyrical domain. I have a rich imagination. That I think so is proof enough for that!! So, People! Come here to hear me say things you all know in words you cannot comprehend!
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