Resurrection

It's difficult
not to miss
the vividness of the dahlias
and the soft dew underneath
the bare foot
in the magical patch
that comes alive
every morning.

It's difficult
not to be lost
in the fairytales
from the spirit of my grandma
in her cloudy attire
and the starry sparkles
when she is too tired
to be there for me.

Wouldn't say the same
about the monotonous humming
of the ceiling fan
and the paranoia
that follows the end of the universe
and your perennial existence.

But it's difficult
not to miss
the dancing smoke
that erotically evolves
into the lady muse
in the middle of
lonely nights.

In a world
of artificial intelligence
and artificial flavors,
of artificial insemination
and artificial smiles,
it's difficult
not to miss
artificial bliss.

Spinning into
a higher consciousness
where Neruda and Kubrick
swiftly start making
much more sense
it's difficult
not to miss
contemplating over
the allegories of life
and metaphysics.

But moon-walking
in the esoteric realms
of surrealism
lady muse took
a curiously human shape
the other day
and it was much more difficult
to neglect her words
when she refused
to be made of smoke any longer
and promised to explore with me
the radiance of the universe
and its unreachable heights
without any of the usual
artificiality.

And that is exactly
what she did.