Poetry Written near those Mansions

Morning calls on the zenith
of our lives; stars wheel above;
the Master watches us in repose,
and we are slights to his gaze.

Memory serves its purpose…
hissing through the clouds,
heady on the invisible wine,
man speaks volumes of rubies,
spilling into a bowl outside of time.

Glowing, the fires of manna,
they fall like dazed and
awestruck children, spilt like
stains over velvet carpets;
the cajolers cajol in their romanticism,
while I am alone in my mind.

Time exists outside;
the snap of a fishes jaw,
the scent of a burnt rose;
these are inside me; explosions.
The crackle of fire against glass,
the sound of a whistling kitchen,
steam pouring out in raptured breath,
and yet, even so, the words never end.

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