An Interval in Time

The faded light of weary lamps reflected on the black marble tiles,
where each heel contained the apertures of emptiness with characters.
The mirrors of the far west retraced the outlines of suits,
where royalty once ranked above all ambition and hope.
Doors welcome those who toil in the march;
as the scribe wreathes pages with promises—
one after another, the stories cross designs, and remnants
of such tales still tower over the vastness of dreamscape—
until fatigue overpowers will;
Comprehension begins to witness a singularity,
Consciousness ends all attempt at control, for
You have set You free from this structure, or the lack thereof;
We’ve stopped counting the days when we looked
at each other’s’ eyes, and only the milestones mattered
moving to the next evanescence.


The canister of the soul sits idly by as the gust
            bereaves temporality;
while peace sways with the makers of time,
a fine pair of sentinels trace the prints to the gates,
            and in their gaze have crossed all darkness
            hiding in Sol’s plain sight.
Stillness—the mark of yeasayers, desolated, isolated,
      stipulated passage upon passage with oblivion;
      yet hope layers strength, page upon page, until
the story succumbs to the tale of unending Proteus
that’s tethered to the origin of all life.
“It can never be found,” they said.
You looked inside and the light is there.


In this sequence, we view celestial motion
in extracts, as dainty leaves waving like the sea;
our pioneers have once recorded this growth,
this inconspicuous life form thriving among us:
“Change,” she was named.
Change—she was constant; in movement
she dresses all acts with character until
they could no longer be. Through brother
Time, she has proven fair in motive and deed—
until you see it come full circle,
for we are her creator, as she is ours. True,
you carry it in you, too. But to whom she answers,
the bearer of her immutable force,
is when we look from each other’s ends, bridge the gap,
and know how much has lapsed.


The notes were sown by the wind in sibilance,
swarming the surface of air with vibrations—
pulsing like vessels that fill Creators with sweet
Revelation after dwelling within which ends meet
one knot to another, tying, lying; enduring all tests
designed to pass the torch of Prometheus,
one blot of ink to another,
arraigned by the scribes in blindness, or in faith.
The proclamation is there, imperfect as it comes,
marching through a desolate trance
kept well within what is termed the subconscious,
but persists to be invisible as we are, after all,
ramifications of ourselves and the nature we are,
after the fall, granted. Yet we never know what it is
to be alone—for
I have a soul in you,
and that you have a soul in me, too.

Privet Andromeda

I’m abstracted in a triangle that awkwardly fit the missing piece
of a seven-sided shape. At first, it was broken; without
the right slide, it couldn’t be any full.
Red and black examined as a paired coating of a surface
that cannot be scratched by a silver barrel enthroned on it.
On one of its many faces, it indicated a number, as if
staring back at me, counting every reaction I make.
A glass crown snuggly fixed, yet being the most delicate,
was only to be kissed by the lips and whose character
to be wasted only with blessed water: then, two green cells
fill the emptiness, and powers it; when held,
it was either four, six, or seven, depending on how
you look or how you look—when pressed, it manifests
anger in its purest form, or peace in its strongest suit.
You know how to look, so do.
Just the right warmth, imagined in the cold,
and a little closer comes the scalding touch
of light, or the beam of hope in a timbre that resonates
with a goddess’ eyes, although in a mirage.
That is when you and I breathe and exchange soul codes.


At the bar of justice stood an outright lie,
            but could it be any real?—the presider asked.
            If it wasn’t, the message unsent would not
            have crossed against what seeps.
It stuck: the habit, the sweet dirge of a cold June sweeps;
            it lingered, like that gambit we
            shook our pieces into. A travesty—a tragedy, it
            looked as odd as a wooden face, carved by
            children’s hands in the dead of night,
            in the brooding eyes of a newborn sun.
You and I unfazed in this moment,
            the brutal honesty binds the link among.
If strength is a unit of measure, no scale
            would sit evenly—even with all the
            pleasures provided by mortal capacities,
            as the phase of black believed.
For amid all these masks stood—
                        this—an outright truth
                                    and the serpents basked
                                    in lament of its glory;
            either you choose to unsee, (But could it be
            any real? Yes, it tasked. If it wasn’t,
            light would’ve been the most daunting
            of all our fears.),
or at the bar of solstice, you choose to live,
            only to lie again, and dine to vie again.


It all began with a button, like the thin line
connecting two faces of a shirt covering the vessel of a single article
coruscating a progenitor of metaverses condensing the code of a soul.
A connection delays as if a harbinger, enduring most labors
that this world could provide, or gift. Where evening follows arduously,
there’s a shrine that bears answers to one physiological need,
and a stretch that wears dancers to a material unburied
by the woods that lie far in the east, and we parted
with a reunion of a story creased with distinction.

For in the deepest recesses of a human heart
is the animating principle that breathes demonstrable life
into this dystopian azure;
Distance doesn’t matter—as we believe it to be—for even time
couldn’t lay its hands on the phantasm we see to ourselves:
the only apparition that reconciles how we view geography.
Do you comply? Or do you wish so, too?
It all began with a button, characteristic of a sign,
yet in one connection we permit to invert the ravel of an aisle.
—a genuine inquiry that makes adequate mourning for both
a friend and a stranger in this hallowed dissilience.