flower

Wispy glow of predawn clouds, A few high hanging winter leaves catch traces of the beginnings of a morning breeze, City lights float in a hazy sunken city, In the riddles of rolling in tall wet grass, smooth familiarity of eleven missing dwarves, The red moon chakra of the seventh goddess, Takes me to the lost echo that will not accept its’ boundary The caesium touch locked up in some lacy veil, The dual valved yellow fever rolling on the floor Misty edged cooing chakra Windows of quiet dedications, awakened bitchenostrophy, High ranking queen of the cherished saturation procession Shadow echo, Two pronged tongue child with edgeless eyes of the sky, The walls that once gave identities and references now open windows, For the wounded echo sensitized to their underpinnings Sees them turning back into night, (another trick of their slinky feet,) Sees their surfaces turn to sand, Lonely lost echo no longer hurries through the Lady’s’ alien shore Looking for some heat hunches to escape a whitewash whirl, Endless echo settles into the seasoning of polarized winds, Bottomless echo breaks the silence of stains on the walls, In another room a mismatched twin in bitter melon envelopment, Film making with empty ghosts that have many names Finds a million lenses to take their sulphur bodies into the sunrise, Ashes to ashes The walls of existence fall away in elastic stitches A touch of the balloon of all directions, my favourite star, Melting lenses All are companions joined in sewn up sing a-longs, For every sensitized little amplification, In the contagious molecules of the flickering lights fragmented overdrive, Plugging into little clover circles Seventh wing saved from the hopefulness of the fishing net, Lamplight lover tastes the dawns’ subtle illumination A thirst that becomes a guide of subtle nuances, Broken open echo, edgeless echo breaks the code of misappropriated beginnings, Knows holes in the nature of being ness the shape of hearts and wings, Each breath a step into wound transducers, Gravity and all the keys to kneeling So many invitations the echo begins to pass through the birth cervix, Found in sweet consummation of my fingertips