There are hues of
blue embracing those of red
to vibrate in harmony.
There is a sense
of their movement above
There is ceaselessly a feeling in the sense.
The feelings can be objects.
Conceivably, the things have a beginning,
because we believe it,
there is neither beginning nor end.
In the spring rain,
there are kissing statues.
In the lulled lodgings
shadows of shabby objects
on the walls,
there are lonely people
meditating about their life.
There is a measure of vulnerability
For everything that is good
and for the starving birds
in searching for seeds everywhere
as for those cancerous youngsters
having unimaginable pains,
still yearning to be cured not till experience.
In the coverings,
there are riders of the history
dressed in armor
to enter the mind's imagination and
all that is not the mind's imagination.
In the spring nights,
there is a moon becoming a curtain
for the great vaudeville
of the stars
formed from the other stars,
no two alike,
like charming women
wearing masks and
wide necklines, nor
like those ballerinas that like to costume
in lactate white to suggest
dandelions dancing to spread their seeds.
In the luxury shop windows,
there are gems looking like flowers
and flowers looking like gems.
In the Sisyphus dimension,
there are tired eyelids in abeyance.
Nothing bends from above, everything falls down.
There are emerald northern lights.
In a puddle of sun,
There are emerald green, tattooed bodies
There are cubic dragons,
and there are things that have been taken apart
to be put, then, back together in a wrong order.
So, there is self-loathing,
and there are feelings of worthlessness
in a life spent earning filthy lucre.
There are resentments to destroy the lives.
There are the wrong things that fall apart and
the wrong things that fall together with those that are right.
There are words coming out in a wrong comprehension
to be incorporated into bad memories.
There are wrongly imagined riders of the history.
Uprising dove feather and prying eyes
get at the meaning of the truths in the uprights (there are many
truths left) .
But there will never be...
And eternal corpses.
Marieta Maglas's Other Poems
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