Every Cold Bell Poem by Mimi Mata

What is a moment without the fickle hands of time?
The verses of this controversy know no other way,
Than to travel between all colors...
What are eyes to one in the nook of real and the subconscious?

Don't close them,
Just keep them shut while awake...

The air is fluid;
I never knew to breathe while I drown,
While I sleep my heart is readily awake,
Each breath I take a theory of inhaled quantum.
Here, and in the distance;
I tear to pieces every cold bell...

I understand this so called 'fragility of strength'
What it takes for a fragment to become disfigured;
How long have I known that everything falls with a melody?

When it goes into pieces...

So, I sing my song somewhat whole,
Metaphysics here fall on the heads of bright red poppies,
And somewhere within this earthly plane
I find a middle only where I will miss
All the arms that once embraced me...

Timeless, transparent; disfigured.

Make of my face only of what you wish
Perhaps it is better that way.

For, I cannot count on you,
And you cannot count on me;
This is the meaning of a true haunting.
How sometimes you place a memory there
Then like an object it becomes misplaced;
Forget the misconception,
Of not being able to inanimate a thought or a memory;
I speak thoroughly with an objectiveness...

A sleeping soul knows all hues turn to black.

But, at times I like these colors,
Separated within my transition,
My fragments are easier to piece,
'When held one by one.'
A fragment from the beginning,
Is a fragment in the end...
Each a color of it's own.

How long have I known everything falls with a melody
When it goes into pieces?
This is the only way I can be recognizable 'whole, '
Each breath I take a theory of inhaled quantum...

And in the distance I tear to pieces every cold bell.