point blank on,
the mind is on a different planet.
All fading around–
behind the trees,
lies the half not seen.
Strips of strides on left–
fanthom catches fathomatics,
loyalties of royalties embalming saints.
Winter is back on wheels–
as the innocence of autumn gets raped,
only I can see.
Ghostly whispers buckling all glee–
pale of mystery on face,
like prima facie of lost.
Lucrative dunes of a swallowed dungeons–
mind boils to inflationary targets,
and its all hooked in my half alone.
Small things are the biggest——
low things are the highest——
dull things are the brightest——
and, yet, all are sarcastically written off clichés.
The five million times the suns, a moon–
and they hang overhead me in bed,
with no healing contagium to free me. Only I can see.
The Village Thinker © 2014