Wednesday, November 12, 2014

№ 194. Gravity and Light

When I think about the past
I think of the surplus of waking hours
Preying on images.

Last, Lost, Lust for Four Forgotten Episodes by Toym Imao

They are an ark of beasts...
Quite a number can give you mild infarctions.
Tough sinews of thoughts and words

Fused by sad, keen eyes.
Scenes of dancing stirred from
Mass graves of memories

Pulled out like the first loose milk teeth
From a willing, innocent happiness;
Pushed out of the nest of decision trees

Whether to sail invisible breezes, unfettered
Yet exposed.
But to explore means to risk improbabilities.

Hushed beginnings come
As varied as technicolor endings.
Drum rolls, pain flashes and anticipation bolts

As a quark alphabet soup is stirred to Big Bang.
No compasses to mark and order time.
Only elapsed slivers, embers of episodes straining to linger.

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