ponders myself
a day that’s already bled in
(365 times Hallmark)
to our psyches’ movement
through mountained plains
perpetual translating
of the countenanced refrains
that echo
after birth.
The depth obfuscated, unsung
fully,
we play punctiliously with undone
really
and the cardium layers hold hands
tightly
tremoring with the ache
of a thousand forms.
For nothing is what it seams
we wake from wrongly so/ewn dreams
in that cold sweat of generations
we honour with strange venerations
those undeserving.
And there’s no way to finish these lines
kaleidoscoped mystery of a child’s eyes…
