Inviglioed on the upper inner portion of my brain
flaunting images, glowing like still-cooling lava glazing into glassiness,
assure me that experiences are lodestones building in people, hefting their
bulk, compacting internal air into denser matter. The emotional alchemist
always was about a kiss looking like a butterfly held in a vacuum of glass
large as the universe. Strange how these experiences alter us, turn the
mirror's image into fugitive motions no longer consonant with the perceived
self. The more you feel the more you move and harder it is to capture yourself.
And what has moved me more than you? A handful of experiences, maybe; and those
not even more, only equally or in some semblance of equality to my pearls.
And I wonder if pearls before swine.
No comments:
Post a Comment