Emotion eludes the waxing of the soul

it's the soul to breath

an imprint, a sign

of the past, the ghostly spectacle

of something sacred,

the pure moment

of the complete, remembered emotion

which permits the spirit to become

the very blood of the body of our

most trusted experiences.

Before: the acute signal

the petals of the dandelion sends

to yellow, the sound

of knowing, the reverbatory glowing,

and the silence following:

the brush of the curtains as they

reveal the gluttonous majesty of the blob

is only near the center of the

purest thing,

the spirit which moves with the wind

to glitter the cold silver skin

of ecstasies, so loftily studding the skies...

and under the candle flickers to melt

all the disappointments which, living

once seek the most clever disguise:

irony is my coiled flesh to linger so

near you, near me, and the quick, rude

awakening of

the sprouts of the heart.