I am not of here,
I am from a place
where the stillness would never crumble to waves
and calmness has no curl.
I am from somewhere
that your grasps would never scope.
I am from an oasis of a feeling,
feeling before tearing to music
poetry before fragmenting to words,
from the realms of sculptures and portraits
the stillness before being disturbed to convolution,
everlasting before being bashed
by being.
The realms of a danseuse
trapped forever
in the platform of a music box
in the limelight
that darns a posture to the perpetual pose,
the coil of her last dance
her last sway,
before stillness splinter to animation,
drilling
versus an endless wall,
that cubes men to lineaments and landmarks,
the realm of a bash
on the water in a flash
forever bursting in a silver splash,
the realm two needles of teardrops
thread
the chandeliers of all springs,
a sip of twinkle
forever
in the labyrinth of every pond.
a mirror
darning
the gaps of all the clear world,
the realm of winds like a comb
on your hair
your hair like a flower
on the shoot of the wind,
on the fount
of the shooting airs,
the realm of stars pinned
on the marcel of an abysmal well,
a butterfly
in the cloche of a crystal bell,
a sparrow
fallen in the pools of the miniature dome,
Excalibur
engraved
on the temper of thunder peals
forever and ever after.
I am from
winters
pouring forever
inward a snowflake.
