Oeuvre #2

Memories are the torrential rains of my storms eye. Clouds cry, which form the outlines of paragraphed skies. Authored by the beauty of the day, my life is composed of prose. Thoughts are those ideas that shape me like triangles of fine art, on square canvas. I can see myself, by myself with myself. I am realizing the center of me is the middle of my eternity. Rain(bows) allow the sun to pierce shadows like arrows, giving victory to metaphor in a war of words, or should I say worlds. The city set on the hill of moons can be seen by stars, only if you close your eyes and open your imagination. I have been inhaled by the nostrils of the wind and exhaled into the world to give breath to sound. My life focuses on the out of focus. Clarity is a matter of perspective in the mind. Always mind me, I’m never like this. Never mind me, I always like this. Invert convoluted thinking to discover their parallels. Aren’t you aware, driving yourself to develop your train of thought, takes place on multi-dimensional planes? Sometimes, I look in the mirror and see distorted candles that resemble flames moving like motion pictures in frames of sweet stillness. I am offered to engage in conversation with the man in the mirror. I respectfully decline. I realize, with my real eyes that when I open them up. I see just fine. He is me!