Dark birds hover around the wounds of the mystic. They are thirsty.

I am forrayed emitting light. Swashbuckling my shadow. Descending. Invisible ethereal mist...

The fog attributed to the charm of strangers. Colors harbor the noisy cloud of confessionals.

I feel the foam of ruins. Mirrors with cracked edges. Silhouettes...

Doors sunken within eyes. Sunny shoveled graves. Hollowed out earth from storms. Falling meteorites. Lost fires and gazes...Bestowed in hands…

 

I feel to see.

I feel to see.

 

The granular infrastructure. Sacred osmosis. I understand, as I clasp my hands...I pray...

How could I forget the ways that your soul departed from the solid stone when weeping?

I will crash here with you upon your pillow of muses. How these exaggerations stray from the logic of my mysticism. Punctuated girth from alliances of intimacy…

 

So, I write of you.

 

Garbled idiosyncrasies fray. My notes frazzle the divine. Lines from faces my pen traces are cliffs. Modern day avalanche from the centuries...But, they don’t remember...I always do...

 

I find it strange to know you.

Again and again.

 

You have not said a single word since the clouds forgot your swagger. The fleet in your step is concretely unsound. Streets conjunct vein...Why enter nowhere in the constellations?...

 

Die and live with me.

Again and again.

 

© Mimi Caneda Mata