Fractles of blue and silver and ice spinning around in the air like dice. One, two, three, four, off we go to the war. Dogs and cats, mice and men. Scurrying ’bout like a beheaded hen. Books on shelves, books by twelves, books and books and books and bells. Creativity found by productivity, reliant on the whims of whimsical entities. Then, now, later, how, size six, size four, size eight, and more. Lollying hollying callying fallying, stepting and leapting and kepting and wepting.
Radio crackling, hospital socks.
Dead dreams in the corners, piled like crickets.
Blueberry syrup and coffee cups.
Lies are stream through baseboards like ants.
Dirty dishes, copper pipes.
Spiderwebs of guilt collect dust.
Rose-tinted glasses are abandoned on the ground.
Traveling shoes are forgotten on the floor.
The lighting is flickering in time with hope,
And the beeping is swiftly increasing.
Pure and whole, whitewashed soul, wishes pull, hopes are null. Dancing fairies, poison berries. Missing merries burden carries.
Glistening drop, glittering plop, cerulean hop, bubbles that pop. Pellucid lives in prismatic hives of ub’quitous eyes with ethereal lies.
Delicate diamonds drop to their deaths as arrogant anthropoids watch.
Dark things’ lairs
These six things
A story–a work of art
Drawn from soul, and
Drawn from heart.
There are diamonds in the sky.
They’re rough as loss and sharp as pain.
Shining pricks of luminescence
winking down at you.
You see them vacuuming sound all around–seconds, minutes, hours, years.
Time isn’t master anymore.
You’re all right.
There’s no rust.
Just papercuts from the sights and sounds.
You’re a dime tossed in the universe.
It’s still slowing, gonna stop: Suddenly, with lots of warning, but no one will see it coming.
You’re a wall erect with bricks of dust.
You’re silken steel.
Your hands can’t hold more knowledge, but reality is rippling and the books keep piling up.
White socks are stark against the ink as the dream relieves the pain,
streaks of ice ab aeterno running through your hair.
You’re a tiny dot on a forgotten page of the endless books of time.
When the sun ascends, the stars “descend.” No longer can His love be seen past the brilliance of the good fortune that has been bestowed us. We think ourselves bereft of His cares; but no. The stars still shine.
They who search with that tool which has been to us delivered–the telescopic lens of the Holy Book–still see the shine of His love. By day they determine it, and when dark comes, they discover how much more there is to what He gives than simple love. For they already search the sky and know in which direction to turn to uncover His gifts, and therefore gain sight and understanding they could not during day as to the splendid complexity and earnest and the unfathomable glory of Him through this.