Consider the kaleidoscope of daily delights: a supermarket of souls wandering aisles of irony.
Do the existential alarms still ring when one chooses
broccoli over beats in the metaphysical market?
What escapes? What entrances?
Loitering labyrinths casting shadows on the wandering minds,
lost in peripheral vision of yesterday's dream.
A reflection in waterless voids
Crystal Tales in Turbid Times
Mystic Mocha Bestows Mascara Morning
The sun dips behind scrolling pixel horizons,
crafting cheap watchtower light on the edges of meaning.
Have you turned after the crescent echo, chasing dawn through shadow soulmate alleyways?
Inside the empty hourglass,
miniature mornings swim like charades in a bottle.
Is this our reality, or an artisan greeting card's discontent paperweight?