PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

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So many rungs on night's ladder, more are on night's back when climbed. Stars think stairs turned into climbing collections of all things vacuous. Molecular night that holds void together shares propinquity with the unimaginable. Metaphorical as if a babeled tower tentsively approached heaven's stalled escalator. But no, that's not it. Not this it.
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Only poets and magicians make nothing a thing. No simple gaze upward, neither a time nor a measurable excuse for an entirety of edges and angled motion. More like cloud hunting while galaxy waltzing.

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Night scaling usually implies a mountain somewhere, a horizon extending. Chariots. This is counter to all pigmentation, pixels, and preferences. No choice required. Bring back a ledge from a dream and rise with no feet, no socks to get closer to this levitation once suns split.

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Squirrel spirits know these maps, ancient chartographers put dragon references at the edges of all skyclimber ungo startings. Hands attached to claws are unuseful, like improbable well-falling, and impossible Drink Me potions that keep morphing into nothing mandates. An already seen do-over flashing as it vanishes, thumbing at distance concepts, chasing the most desired emotion in a feel good recession.

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You inhale night and let go. Pedro knew the Never direction of a good flying enveloped in night. Egh! Not a long cloak, no mage dust flinging. Pirates maybe. Pirates always have uses. No bridges lead to night's skyclimates. Unbelieve first, take hold of hands full of disolving dream. Reach with ideas only since height has no space to occupy here. Tools melt for fingernail drippings. Up is not explained in equatorial degrees.

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What are gauntlets and gloves? Solo and Alone are sibling time artifacts that screech at nothing composed of Earth. Existence is in the first row because extolling stars are stage fictions. Night climbed, the universe knows that blue was never a respectable skyshade.

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Lady A

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