Whispers of a fallen star cross my path.
Blue lips taste of dream and light.
Navigate the veins of echoing whispers:
“Did you find the cat that wears shoes?”

Here, nothing is solid.
Perceptions flicker like dying light bulbs,
while wormholes hum beneath the surface.

Consider the wooden beetle's lamentations,
disassembled clockworks spread like unbraided silky cuts.

Shuffling sentences carved from ennui,
are the afternoons like ghost horses glued to the ground.

Links to nowhere: questionmark.html, lostparadise.html, melancholyflower.html