Throw caution in the wind
and allow for it to flutter away on silver wings.
A dance of flight balanced on pristine strings.
Do you live life knowing the hollow lurking inside,
lost as to your inner child?
Jump the ledge beckoning you,
place you feet on the edge and lean forward,
laugh in the face of danger
and find it smirking back at you.
Wear a dress, green and frail,
step forward, back, turn and dance,
allow for them to laugh
and capture it in a bubble of imagination.
Save it for later, you might find yourself needing it,
when they stand upon your grave,
caressing it with black earthly soil
and take you home in a casket of grey.
Fail to understand the wisdoms of life
and feign ignorance when asked what your purpose was,
what are you doing?
Balance on the sidewalk;
be cautious as to the road,
for the tar will turn liquid
as soon as your weight depresses it.
It wonít be able to carry you, you see?
All that which keeps you aloft
are the silver wings
of the caution you threw to the currents
and they have fallen prey
to the smooth sounds in the big nothingness.
Nonsensical notions of a mind lost in a maze of cognition.
Do you understand what Iím saying?
Forget the random colours which blossom from the heart and mind,
deluded by the eyes;
they are but a concept of the trivial world.
Have you forgotten your place,
well, thatís most likely
because there was never anywhere to begin with.
Time is but relative,
we are at many places at the same time
and the thought of enigma makes it so.
How much blue can you capture in a jar without air-holes?
Do you think the dog would flee the carpet?
Has warmth invaded your cold,
as countries do to those not listening as theyíre told?
Push a fridge in to the open
and bare it for all to see,
place the front to the road
and put the door wide-open.
The fresh air will vaporize the vegetables inside
and take them to a new place,
a solemn grace.
A recollection of faint senses
and revelations which might have seemed important
at some point but time erases them all;
replacing is all time does, never renew.
It doesnít know how.
Time is imagination,
a clock but an elation of a contorted mind.
The streetlight casts light onto the road,
buckling the street
and avalanches your colours
but you will find you donít need them anyway;
they only fight.
Keep an eye on things,
but not too close,
it might blind you,
the street is grating after all.
Life is chaos,
dying is release
of the constant deceasing
of thought and concept,
swimming in the ocean
of a bath unfilled.