Seaside Moors i want y'all to just get down.

experimenting with fun incoherency. feel free to laugh at me, i already am

oh shying, landfill heart,
r
                         
e  lusive soul;
       c

i have seen nothing
and i am even less

geogaze waxes listless; pair of saccharine jewels in the sewers, rot.
dreamless sleep was like shooting dope. the things hidden behind the flitter of black lashes couldn't reach her there. an escape she paths.

( seek me through confusion,
and in quiet seek me more. )

she opened her eyes, bruised lemonfruits
but not to waking.
a willowisp limned in a silver glow awaits her, flutters with the hymn of the fiddling zephyr. she feels warm as it enswathe her in a breeze like a chemise, disheveling her ruff, and then she remembers in a sense of deja vu.
the darkness is alive, slumbering, and she feels its chest distend around her with a sick hairpin in her gut. 
the wisp mantles blush, its ever-lustring iridescence shrugging into a shift of some kaleidoscopic prism. do not be scared, it seems to mean. she doesn't know why she gets this message in her head without words. 
phaedra shifts slightly on quiet slippers
(don't wake your own darkness), and only then, phaedra sees. 

the window with chiffon curtains, ruched edges gently rustling with that sourceless yet inviting breeze. warmth spilth from the other side. when she tries to recall her last passage through this scalpel-precise incision, she is struck with hissing stanza,

the dream is

                                                                                             
worse than dead.

                                                                           
the dream is

 
worse than gone. 

                                             
it simply never was.

it simply                                                                                            never was.


the wisp bade her through the doorway with an airy croon. she hesitates through and is plumbed in darkness again. not her darkness, the alive type. regular darkness, and she thinks she hears the sound of a sigh whisper against her ear, but when she turns there is no one there; a strange moment of cryptomnesia, and then her feet find root in clover. the clover. she digs her toes into the primrose path and


                             breathes                        

                                                     
in,
a lodestone collecting each scintilla of light into herself,
until she is birthmother of all that is light here
a circle of condensation that grows and shrinks
as she breathes in and out.

                                                                 

 and suddenly a 

gasp

of 

voluptas' bliss



all the sonnets and all the limericks and all the masterpieces taken together could not capture an estimable description of the fleshly pleasures that were unearthed in the discovery of this nights of taking passion forth into an abyss!

she digs her toes in deeper, turning the clover amethyst and sunwarm, diffusing petals outward, blowing 

them 

to

h i m?
( i know that you’re there,
‘cause i could point you out
in ten thousand galaxies )

 

one flashbulb spark​
a second's worth it all
to give this dream breath