Conceits upon conceits, diamonds and pearls,
elaborated nonsense, evaporated conceptions
of the real in diffuse documents. Mumbled sects
and befuddled heresiarchs, the sky is brown
or green or blue, maybe purple. The Sun sets
when it rises, the surreality of the stars
is reduced to art. Remember when her form
was something exciting? When the power of
her attraction really mattered? O how words
have failed in the endeavor to bridge the infinite
and definite worlds! A string of words attempt
to illumine the sequence of becoming. A jewel
adorns her curved forehead, I'm mystified by
the riddles and rhymes she weaves into a verse.
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