Old Silver Poem by Adora Williams

An envelope full of old letters with a message:
‘Look through when in need of old new concepts'
I do it particularly well

I am very good at rewriting myself through the other's perspective
Or is it the opposite somewhere in this sentence?
I don't know

Sometimes I rush in the reasoning
It goes sideways

I don't even understand
The outcome
But it talks to and through itself
And I'm no more than a channel
Or railroad tracks

A waterless canyon
With only the stoic air
And memories from ages where
The concept was all that would ever matter

I'm constantly in a rush,
Just now I started to write this through a silver nib
But old silver is for quiescence, the script wanted to ease
And I ended up relying on the daisy
That will always turn around as fast as
The thought I've already forgotten
By this point

Last autumn
It was the same
I spent the incarnadining months in between
The ethereal and the physical
Not entering any door
Just observing from a third perspective
Or perhaps it's the opposite somewhere in the wind
Where I deceive
Alliterating the same old silver through the blue
In hopes that—

And overusing caesuras and ellipsis
Expecting that the concept would convey itself
In this age of literalness
The collective that easily coalesces
And there's no mystery left
On the rune to be read
Or sign in my café...

Wide openness

And I just want to ebb the gap
I want the light to go black
So all we can do is word our way back
To enlightenment

It always happens somewhere around my birthday
I was born mid-autumn
The day I decided to give existence a try
But I've never left non-existence behind
The reason why I could never enter that door
I remained in between
The ethers and physicality

But the autumn ends
The door where the blue sphere deceivers
Float in light
Closes again
I'm once again left to the epilogue
Where the colours of tomorrow start to glow

But, for some reason yet unknown to me
I close the book and contemplate the open-concept
And the other seasons follow the warm monochrome
In a translucent, crystal bowl with orris roots powder in between the lines
Where they dry but never fade

I wish I had achieved supremacy over my thoughts
So I could make more sense
So I could finish a sentence
Or a poem
Without changing my heart as the seasons change
Or revolve the concept as the stanzas go

But I am just a lost blue sphere that turned into rust aeons ago
I was forgotten by time, I nearly lost my mind
Alliterating the same old silver
Rewriting the unwritten, old silver nib,
Blue ink, third perspectives, opposites

Hoping that it would become
Gold