Nostalgia gives way to potential,
The homey homely to the imagined image -
The things that buzz, drunk on desires,
Granting glances at what may only be guessed at.
They move freely and happily between
What may only be traversed through pain.
These are my fireflies; palm trees by day, neon by night.
You can try and kill them if you like,
But it’s more than them you’ll have to reckon with.
Vision is almost as flimsy as thought
And neither may die, only move, only hope, only cry,
Gilded with the shadow of membrane that curves
around what is hidden by ivory and wine
and what gains passage on the wind.
The paths I’m peddling towards,
Map-less and blind, lie somewhere in between.
So I’ve been told.
*For reals post later this week, hopefully.