A ghost gaffs in my pearly bones,
to plant a splitting cellular rumor,
You piece of junk.
Burnt out as a string of lights.
At the ledge of my heart,
I sought magnificence of green aventurine, glowing room.
Where a child walked through,
a forest to a beach of silver sands
and sunstone shells.
As that child, I sat gathering seashells.
Preparing to build a bridge to mother’s lunar craters; to be engulfed, in a child’s mind a solacing embrace.
But the dawn always broke with the numbing morning antagonizing,
You’re too late.
Nowadays, I’m aware of her nature,
as cold and distant. Only a mirror, to the warmth I desired, in my blacken nights.
But I know the spuns of iridescents are still within. And I can burrow in the empty chambers of the furled spiral.
Even if I tip on my side and sink into the depths of a cave in the ocean; my love will never runout, dear.
For some, like me, must contract the fragmented consciousness, to revive back into the ever spinning expansion.