A flicker of neon, the symphony of why are they looking at me?
Saturday comes like a dusty clock cradled in amnesia, I knelt.
Fragments, remarkably sharp, almost unbearable
click of stillettos echo the forgotten prisms burning
Half shadows laugh in coded whispers
Can you taste the fading spiral of time, spirals unto empty horizons?
Reflections seething, a tunnel drawn in graphite
As winter murmurs past autumn's grave
Do you remember the honeycomb lady?
Threads of Echoes within world walls.
Floating melodies skitter, those sidewalk tiles
Erased pasts breathe through opaque photographs
Memories twist into the blurring hours
Some moments bleed crimson—
Not autumn, but the fall of whispered crater scars,
through sheets of woven anxieties.
Inversion occurs where the holographic edges gleam:
another invisible conversation
in sleepless shards 'cross pale blue strings—
Did that fog consume yesterday's rain or perhaps,
Dream Certainty
laced in static, through furrows and gaps