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
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.