the haunt of days' after,
as if memory's aftertaste,
a swamp of driftwood,
with no water in sight,
just classic deductions display,
as if carved by a dilettante of time.
a language that visually lingers
as if spoken is made of stone.
to have bullet holes of sensory awareness,
as little peek-a-boos that constantly flood in,
to make the blood of awareness seem so real,
that thought throws shadows as moods that linger,
wanted a soft mind-clay as impressionables,
as an inner voice that feeds on verbs in motion,
to carve a mindset out of water features
to find brightness as the last crayon in the box,
make topics into a certitudes of rose-petal pathways
that find a breezy-ness between thoughts that linger.
have inner laughter as leftovers from whims delivered.
to feel complete with the autism of understanding.
have brightness of soul as fluidity is becoming,
as if to bathe in the feedback from the utterances of the sun,
there, to have watery as nurturance seeking luminescence.
focus as soft hands of the heart, caressing sky.
yes, time kissing up as if to become a butterfly.
having a blossom-throat for next thoughts to come.
but mindfulness is shy, when worn as experience.
maybe we are all nude inside
of what thoughts we have,
that journey as us . . .
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