After Insomnia


Insomnia is like, the last episode
The bouquet of roses in sunlight melting
In the mind of dreams that is free
From attachment or the relativity of experience
I’ve been there done those things
I just don’t remember, the sensations
Were like too actual and the feeling of being real
Was pretentious, like the self-importance of
Youthful moments that were as vivid
Made the seasons more bright
Maybe I choose to respond emotionally
Like April, a time of strength where
I could announce to myself my own passions
So sense could exceed all metaphor
And I could change myself once again
To awaken to the wakefulness that is not sleep
To the yearning that makes my soul on fire
To the fate that does not feel unlike destiny
The bouquet of roses then is held firmly
Like a breast, or a leaf or a life bled, breathed and loved.

The Muse of Isern


 

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Author of the only dating advice I care to listen to.

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Heidi from Montana, give me unicorns

For breakfast, stories of Silicon valley

Give me a medium to think about Love

To the left, of our hearts where

 

We left the swag of being Millennials behind

As we scattered the globe with our tiny

Points of light, our storytelling never brighter

With bright eyes we slept on rose thorns

 

And woke to the sound of soulmates

Dreaming of us, unknown, elsewhere

Heidi from Montana, does a nomad make

A better story, a better lover, do they have

 

A richer experience to trade for subjective merits

Better illusions, move vivid fantasies?

The bronze rain of time is an omen

It’s waking with us 24/7, like a lizard

 

Not exactly discontent, but acceptance

These lips are no longer pine-tree sweetened body

Of youth, our minds are becoming all

Too salty harbours of unbelonging and freedom

 

Tales of freedom and independence

Made into a custom lifestyle, we were not bred for this

We may not breed to repeat this

We still touch unicorns in the clouds

 

A woman in her mid 30s is the fruit

Of time, where youth caresses wisdom with a spunge

There’s no heaven for the blazing pass

Of golden years that turn to naught

 

It’s just poetry, in our breath

Our curriculum of Paris never dies

Our silicon valley hearts remain

The better substance of our will

 

To be happy come what may

Burning like a five-star 5-star sunrise

Over the golden coasts, along the west.