fractal echoes
prismatic fire
a world seen through a cracked mirror,
but cracked into perfect patterns -
like the jaali at the Tomb of Akbar the Great
patterns overwrite blank spaces
this reality hates the mundane
and how can that machine be so loud?
a motorcycle rode through my brain from fifty feet away
down on a street somewhere below
there's a switch
i can't see it
nor can i touch it
it's somewhere in my brain
and i can flip it
and it zaps me into a reality, still and banal
that fades into pulsing closeness and periodic sound floods
as soon as i love the mundane an instant too long
This entry was posted in poem, Poetry and tagged poem, poetry, Psychedelic by B Gourley. Bookmark the permalink.
