Every Sunday,in my room, pictures of an unknown album appeared.
My fingers would touch them and I’d swim in mid-air.
My eyes would blur, my nerves signaled needles all over.
Blood became electricity piercing my heart turning purple
and then flared up sending smoke tumbling from my nose,
mouth and places underneath my clothes.
The sun sprayed in my window restoring my life
to think, breathe and move to hang pictures up the next night.These pictures told me…
She spent her time around roses,
lie in the shadows, crying because the world doesn’t know.
Left in paint and dried up a saint.
Walked in circles without a vision.
And when she slept, spreaded her fingers,
hid her arms, arranged her legs with easy friction
as the covers would heat her thighs and fold at the bottom and exposed her toes to the sky.
He’ll bolden His digital iris and bolt it, as the flash was on;
capturing her moments.
This Sunday brought no pictures,
but when I sat down energy surrounded my fingers and knees.
I traced it back to the sun who reflected this at the backyard.
I looked out my window and saw eyes staring at the energy, searching.
She was symphonic beauty, as if music was a person.
Her eyes, deep blue marbles of the ocean; looking for me.