Poison pt. 2 - the island of stripped thought
Somehow I’ve been roped into a jovial love. Tracing the perimeters of a vibrant dream, you cater only to the present. To see with the skies of colourless eyes. Nurtured by the angelic layers of a stature that embraces your field of beautiful contradiction. These are the flowers that bud in waves of light, warming your fresh wick into a stream of fire. The fire of a writer. You aggressively wear the wind in pursuit of results. You are a poetic dismissal of purpose. Your spontaneity repels direction, but this is the path of an explorer. We must be structureless fools to walk these lands. To seek permission or revelation in a distant existence. To what level must we trust if trust must not be visualised with fingers and lips? In a figureless shape of matter bathing in wishes. Is balance confining or hopeful? To be tortured by the liveliness of a human bottle, or poured into riches of metaphorical gold. The compass is just a contraption to one with no direction. How long must I hold ...