Rainbows Collide

How many times

will the calm tumultuous breath

heap the sparkling tales

into the no-mouth of origin?

From extremity to extremity –

a sigh, a sainted emnity.

The liquid gold of form orchestrates

before the shifter joyfully,

yet it is all the same

in the womb of potentiality.

A right turn is a left turn,

and a left turn a right one;

for all is reconciled

past the soap bubble of the child

who rose and dreamt the fragments of his core.

O dearest acrobat of prickled love!

Thumos ran away,

and eros is beating himself into a pulp.

The rope is the quicksand of delusion,

and the rings blaze with dry ice instead of fire.

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