if poetry could seep from my veins like blossoming kaleidoscopes of intellectual and spiritual manifestations. colors would surge reflecting the beauty my mind's eye sees.. because beauty has that tinge of melancholic abandonment. because what you realize can only be attained through its momentary acknowledgement, then the idea fades back into the universe of dreams until it is tapped again by you or another.
but what else can i do, do, do. i always crave new horizons but i fragment my energies by forgetting that i was building a bridge in the first place, you know?
i know you know. know how it feels. to be floating on an ethereal plane of disconnect. and no, it is not negative or sad or fearful. just inspired and unsure.
we all float and blossom
continually
infinitely
entirely
and yet the cursor still blinks with anticipation, dancing to the metronome of my contemplation.
my pulse dances with it, harmonizing with caffeine and the warmth on my wrists, keeping my fingertips warm with joy and the anxious plead for enlightenment.
one being.
the light floats.
the heart flutters
the mind rises
drifting
finding
peace.