Cubic Words

There are hues of 

blue embracing those of red 

to vibrate in harmony. 

There is a sense 

of their movement above 

the limits. 

There is ceaselessly a feeling in the sense. 

The feelings can be objects. 

Conceivably, the things have a beginning, 

because we believe it, 

and maybe 

there is neither beginning nor end. 

In the spring rain, 

there are kissing statues. 

In the lulled lodgings 

emblazoned with 

shadows of shabby objects 

on the walls, 

there are lonely people 

meditating about their life.

There is a measure of vulnerability 

For everything that is good

and for the starving birds 

in searching for seeds everywhere 

as for those cancerous youngsters 

having unimaginable pains, 

still yearning to be cured not till experience. 

In the coverings, 

there are riders of the history 

dressed in armor 

to enter the mind's imagination and 

all that is not the mind's imagination. 

In the spring nights, 

there is a moon becoming a curtain 

for the great vaudeville 

of the stars

formed from the other stars, 

no two alike, 

and being

like charming women 

wearing masks and 

wide necklines, nor 

like those ballerinas that like to costume 

in lactate white to suggest 

dandelions dancing to spread their seeds. 

In the luxury shop windows, 

there are gems looking like flowers 

and flowers looking like gems.

In the Sisyphus dimension, 

there are tired eyelids in abeyance. 

Nothing bends from above, everything falls down.

There are emerald northern lights.

In a puddle of sun, 

There are emerald green, tattooed bodies 

Dancing tango. 

There are cubic dragons, 

and there are things that have been taken apart 

to be put, then, back together in a wrong order.

So, there is self-loathing, 

and there are feelings of worthlessness 

in a life spent earning filthy lucre. 

There are resentments to destroy the lives. 

There are the wrong things that fall apart and 

the wrong things that fall together with those that are right. 

There are words coming out in a wrong comprehension

to be incorporated into bad memories. 

There are wrongly imagined riders of the history. 

Uprising dove feather and prying eyes 

get at the meaning of the truths in the uprights (there are many 

truths left) .

But there will never be...

Blue trees 

And eternal corpses.