(no subject)
Ontological Universe
The sky metaphorized me
from a dream he had:
he said that
I, a spot
bleached from the gas of stars,
had plucked up from the sun
with bones of white-hot ash.
I have a bridge to sell him,
a universe.
Tell me, blue man
outside my window,
of the yellow-green colloquy between
May pollen floating
and the wet green tethers
of mother's hair.
Sure, you float the pollen,
and you let mom live,
but all your white-lipped grins
and stormy gray gravitas
could never convince
me of my
derivative.
My unique eyes,
set to the tune of nature
and the rhythm of consciousness,
scream of both a star my own.
When someone walks by,
looking up at us,
I feel the gravity
of where she looks,
of all her steps,
of what she wears-
the rainbow twinkle
of our being stars:
that in one galaxy,
we color better still.
The sky metaphorized me
from a dream he had:
he said that
I, a spot
bleached from the gas of stars,
had plucked up from the sun
with bones of white-hot ash.
I have a bridge to sell him,
a universe.
Tell me, blue man
outside my window,
of the yellow-green colloquy between
May pollen floating
and the wet green tethers
of mother's hair.
Sure, you float the pollen,
and you let mom live,
but all your white-lipped grins
and stormy gray gravitas
could never convince
me of my
derivative.
My unique eyes,
set to the tune of nature
and the rhythm of consciousness,
scream of both a star my own.
When someone walks by,
looking up at us,
I feel the gravity
of where she looks,
of all her steps,
of what she wears-
the rainbow twinkle
of our being stars:
that in one galaxy,
we color better still.