Monday, March 28, 2011

Conscious Bud Of Light

In the cell vibrating, pulsing
A fluid producing existence.

Floating and wandering beyond
These hollow streets,
And fleeting countries.

A sour sun that burns,
Scoured earth on scorching panorama.

The outside blooms green,
Like veins appearing as river streams.

Escaping through the tubes, producing oxygen to a beating heart.

Cut it off, to find the bittersweet termination.

The timing circling in quickening paces.
Days becoming years, smiles becoming fears.

Over and above, I am willing to break myself off.
This path. This cell is shaken. Lost in an airway.

No longer living like broken skin off a mattress waiting to be swept.
Ultimate aspiration bleeds for death.

Level after layer, after step after floor.
Can't distinguish where the reality is.

Waking, or dreaming.
Breathing or Sleeping.
Pinch me. Wake me. Suffocate me.

Sound the alarm.
Where do I wake from bewildering shudder rest
Or is it psychasthenia?

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