Anatomy
- Eyes
Pale blue balls surrounded by soothing withering white overtures.
Watery wells swell within the weeping withering white.
Black bags burgeon and blow toward the soothing center.
Victorious voices echo through vicarious vines.
Sepia toned streams string down the momentous mountain.
“Wake Up!”
A familiar face falls within your gaping gasp.
Helpful hands hide chaos within comfort.
Serpent circles fade from enlightened minds.
Dried up droughts summon the stream to silence.
“Deep Breath”
“Deep Breath”
The silence sullies your weary woes.
You are at peace.
2. Ears
Hounds of Hells hear no bounds to the Harpies of Heaven.
Heights harbor resentment from rickety railways.
Screams sound softer as the room lights up.
A cereus response is warranted through delightful darkness.
The dreaded desert fills your simple stomach.
You know not what wonder could ponder your saunders.
The case closes as the jumbling judge jinxes your fall.
The fluorescent floor fumbles within your reach.
Wind wisps you to your faithful fate.
Fires ferociously find your soul.
Serpents circle your every whim.
Your ears listen to every echo of insanity.
You are way for the wicked.
Path of the foolish.
3. Nose
A lingering long line of levels of longevity.
Trident tastes tickle the six senses.
Smoke smirks from a silly song.
Steak streaks to the tips of the mouth.
Minds, matter, and magnitude all from within the wishes of the willful.
Let life be beckoned by lights and magic.
Sight sees not what can be felt in turn.
The singing songbird allows an ailing heal.
Sight and blind holding hands in uniting unison.
All in a moment of time and rhyme.
The human experience in a single small box.
Tasting and Tasting.
4. Hands
Bright blue buildings stand smooth in the silk city.
Hammers hang nails upon wild wooded structures.
Sound sings as the dry drill pacing, pounds into the green ground.
Men and women wearing original orange create a monument to movement and progress.
The city slowly begins to take a final form.
Sparks sprinkle as the celebration begins to amass.
‘Rome wasn’t built in a day.’
And neither was here.
Years and years.
Life and love and lust and passion were put into this singular spot.
A place of township.
Trust.
Fellowship.
And crime.
A place of work and workloads and work-times and workdays.
And of rest and restrooms and restaurants and restful riches.
From the tomb of nature arose a land of luxury.
Hands having constructed the concrete, bricks, and buildings.
Hands upon which will reside in the town.
Hands of humanity.
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It is in this city in which the gloves will be guided away.
And stored again.
Only.
For once the city.
Rome falls again.
The gloves will be given out again.
And new faces will take form from the gloves.
And the hammers will pound the nail, pacing again.
And again.
And again.
Until the new city is built.
Blue and bolstering and proud.
For which the monument will stand again.
The party will go on and on.
And the gloves shall be retired.
Until further use…
5. Feet
Air whistles below as you follow the flying birds.
Your sanded sandals seem to sling at every step.
Willingly, you let yourself find land upon the lucrative soils.
At every step, you find either a fallen wing or a singing shallow angel.
The branching beach allows for infinite exploration of the multiverse of magnitude within its grains.
Galloping, your feet touch the grey grains.
The ocean allows for you to pass peacefully.
Closer and Closer.
A tiny town stands in the dark distance.
Lights, games, magic, all within a single contained space.
Running, you attempt to achieve the anchored dream.
The blissful breeze sends you back.
But you do not stop.
Sly Sisyphus did not wait for worries for him to push the impossible.
Closer and Closer.
You rightfully run toward the sacred city.
Closer and Closer.
You pass birds and bees and clouds and trees.
Even the thoughts of the mindful meadow meads.
But you keep running.
Running toward a little light.
Running.
Closer and Closer.
Farer and Farer reach the little light.
Big breaths are thoughtfully taken.
Until…
You see it.
The sanded sign.
Blisters bling from your sorry soul.
A man greets you at the overly entitled entrance.
“Greeting traveler…”
He says in a monotone manner.
“Come in.”
“Come in.”
“Come in.”
You know you should.
In a moment’s time, you begin to burden the entrance.
But then.
The swan song stops.
Fun fades from a vicarious view.
The English man walks away.
You are left ailing and alone.
Stopping and starting.
Again and again.
Waiting and waiting.
Until you wake up.
Get up.
And start again.
You step slowly onto the sand.
And fly again…
