If an attitude finds its way across
on a foam of emotion without reckoning,
so much then some might try to nail
it upon a wall with a flock of daylight,
or crucify, under a citation declaring,
“this is too much”. It is. And so quit.
The double side of the coin awaits
your entry when snapped into a toss,
when elevated nickle excavates
back into the dullness of a mandala,
as proportion isn’t found on the ground,
at least not anymore than it exists in a
planet’s axial spin. And your bearings
from a sexton and compass? Digression
of what cannot ever be fully decided
while you stand in the situations that will
only ever be halfway acknowledged.
But that’s the ticket. A portal allowing
even the heaviest of weights to proceed
with the feathering into their thin duplicates
until each original falls from the remains.
Again, the return of the flittering birds
or the flow of the blood into red curtains,
as we begin to maneuver about within self
declarative authority as well as the drama
of speech. Heightened and locked, they linger
both with the allergens of dusty tomes,
while peeking from the pages the ghostly
multitude of faces, expressions embodied
in print with as much meaning as yourself,
as we tend to find ourselves in there, each
voiced creation in the fluctuating mixtures
of day and night. The yards turn into seas.
Winds churn the paths. Countries without
national flags. Rewards of colorful strife.