There are windows, by which we pass, by chance in passing, a brief moment, lost in the landscape, or in the weather, and the thief of time becomes the knave of hearts, a gentle cloud of forgetfulness, drifting by, whispers sweet nothings, stay with us, everything melts, the lotus eater's clock of Dali, he sees everything, you in that dark, misty corner, at the lost end of the world, in a haze, tilting over your toes, into the grey looming chasm of open arms, is it Samothrace, her whiff of revival, a new waking, a mouse squeak, a third eye, remember, remember, remember what you love.
(Penned Thurs, July 12, 2012)
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