PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Supernova quasar hiccups. It's all a matter of teleportable kinesis on a flimsy whim. Whirlpools are rollercoaster rides. There really is no meaning. Only mode. Modes of transportation. Modes of salvaging what the current carries as it simmers down into the lost and found. It all really must be a run-on sentence for me from here on in. Nowhere to go but forward. No destination for the destined. No silly miracle to weigh us down. No fantasy is really really so fantastic. Ties severely severing and selimnically symmetrical. Nouns all too easily reversed into adjectives. Gravity is still the balance beam, still the formidably furthest undertippietoe, As we scale walls and wonder just how far they'll go. Just how distant is the distance to the eyes that care to know? Ice frailing to egg shells, as verbs reverberate the unversal voice, and time is just a single being in and of itself, fooling the foolish as we tripwire our tightropes set forth for those of us who dare to be the furthest of the far, and the stale of the still. Holding hands and making love somewhere deep within the deepest darkest caverns of our souls, and the further that I get myself from her the closer she always seems to be. As more and more I patch the fillings with silly putty string. Totally aware and snared begging for someone to simply care. Our bodies are our safety nets, and our minds most surely the most curious of acrobats, reason hiding just beyond the reasonable rhyme. No such success to pull the trapeze artist from her perch, nor inspiring the one who retreats so soundly back to her lowest gear.