BairRug

That world in between words is where we exist - Between pen and ink black and white... Wedged within margins and lines loose cogwheels of mind. To others, this void tastes like copper pennies smells of gasoline-soaked matches. But together, we found oblivion immortality; The silver lining - A loving embrace sweet telepathy, transparency and chemistry, Our other half resides between heart and soul, thoughts and words, And exists where blank space frames ink and page.

    I imagine the sea with an insistant beauty: with heated sand scalding my toes, and the water whispering its husky lullaby while nurturing tides lick at the land in envy before being tugged back into the water's embrace.    I'm not the only one to see it. Poets and writers romanticize this magical realm, where salty pleasures are mixed with sand and a hot summer's day. They sit with now gritty notebooks, the ink in their pens melting into the paper as the dreamy-eyed wordsmith produces infinite combinations for comparing the beach's waves to their lover's eyes.    Though having never been to where a continent breaches its ocean, I hear

Gears behind her eyes are buzzing - cobwebs to dust-devils: grinding tiers are the churning of the machine. She'll perform for anyone with the wind-key: despite her mechanic heart screaming for her to freeze. Her only love is the doll-maker who mended her dress and created her soul.

An old toy from the toolbox: cracked glass skin, dust-caked features, and waxy eyes... When wound up, she still performs despite the cobwebs in her soul.

She resides in old, forgotten cemeteries: Charming little ones away with stories, stirring leaves to rattle scared nerves, and moaning obnoxious laments while she awaits sweet eternity.

She's old now: Powdered skin like crumpled, parched paper, eyes swelling with stories of adventure: Some would suspect that when she goes, she'll melt like hot wax, or fold into dust. But I suspect she'll flake away by morning, so no one can sweep away remnants of her from floor boards that remember her weight, and parts of her will sink and settle into our homes and our minds like snow fall.

Clip my wings, burn my feathers: Help me forget the taste of freedom and remember only the gold light that shines through gilded bird cages.

A pyromaniac's eyes are attracted to the gypsy of a dancing fire: A romani's kiss rots the flesh she attacked, but the fire-breather's fury never retired. Flames fade to remembered ashes, ashes into smoking decay... Tyrannical fire continued her burning lashes, but he forgave angry burns of yesterday.

His look is one an arsonist saves for his gasoline soaked fire: that same mesmerizing pull ripped wings away from my numb back much like how He burned a butterfly's wings just to see its crippled flight path. that same tether shredded my halo like a ribbon, His gravity left my lead toes to gladly grasp acidic floorboards. now I am the moth enamored by a match he lit, even after the fire has gone out And His room is left cold: my heart still attracted to the old heat. cherub's fingers played with fire, but His hands were the ones that were burnt after wiping away holy tears.

Blankets bleed green grass stains. Lazy, you lay viewing lunar runes: lost civilization's last lights never guess that we envy the glowing remnants of constellations.