Compressed black and swallowed, it lays buried inside a canvas of melted, foolish lines.
Busted color leaked into solidarity on an open pupil.
Trapped inside a fluxing current smudged with bereavement and the blissful madness in-bedded from
the gluttony of au courant moments, moments true and peeled,
moments rotted and soiled in the profoundness bathing inside the ticking unanimity of ones own mind; visible existence.
And oh the things it bares witness to;
Transportive passions spun into the playful minds of eager architects.
Mid-summer sky’s, boiling, smiling, scolding the skin.
How it exchanges the dreams planked inside the weary tear ducts of tepid cooling clouds.
And blackness, born from a speechless space, an alchemistic abyss; one third of our lives.
What paradise finds home inside these jello eyes?
For it is they that wrote this, not I.
Eyes of white,
Eyes of gold,
Courted and neatly trimmed by the thoughts of Michael Angelo.
These glinting, darting, dancing eyes,
Why they have no option but to nebulously sink, in occasion, behind the squint of suspicious lids.
Safeguarded at all times.
But while they remain veiled beneath weakened lids,
They remain open,
fixated inside the belly of a crepuscular night;
They do not sleep.