Sunday, January 19, 2020

Violet Capillaries on the Way Down

Reality disappears
On the shifting plateaus of trail
As moss turns
So amiably
Into clover.
The sensuousness of the illusion
Is all that matters.
It keeps improving
And perfecting itself
In the dark,
So we will fling ourselves
Into its eye
Of conjugate froth and novelty,
With the dimmest of links
To the silent absconding
From our souls,
What our enlarged feelings
Can barely inflect,
But it is
Enough.