Weary like a Log in the Fog

Smeared is my mind

in the name of fatigue.

Fatigue is like a rapist

in the broad daylight.

It robs you of your strength.

Still, something about fatigue

in the daylight,...

a speckle about fatigue,

something like a hint of untouchability.

It leaves you with a dreamy feeling.

who wouldn't want a dreamy feeling

all day long,

all day long,

and then, one can dream all night long.

Not bad a bargain, right.

Just until the first star

meets the falling sky

of the night,

comes the moonlight.

It can't be all so bad.

The waking hour will come,

like a new home.

It becomes,

one star invites others

and constellations form.

Before we know it,

we aren't tired anymore.

A stroke of collectivity.

What can I say now?

No matter how close

I think I am

to an universal truth,

still I am

conveniently reminded

how

I know not a single thing.

Like a bowling ball,

how it will roll

down its alley...

people will tumble as they are.

Eventually,

they will pop as they really are.

All strokes of luck,

you never know what you get.

You buy a caramel candy apple on a stick.

You are left with a stomachache and a stick.

You bump into a mountain lion on a little trek.

You are given a ride to the summit.

You never know what you get.

All I want is the truth.

Is that much to ask for?

Come on out of the thickets.

There is nothing to hide.

It is perfectly healthy

to tell the truth.

All strokes of people,

let's just count on love

and telling your truth.

If it is hiding behind layers.

Peel and weep them away.

It is for the best,

just for the best.

why not?

Have you thanked your feet lately?

For many small and big miracles you have witnessed,

they would not have been if not for your feet.

If you want to scoff at me,

"I see all my miracles in the car."

You still use your feet in the car.

*shrugs*

this is just a tribute to all the walking feet in the world.

By the way,

avoid grass if there's concrete.

Why?

Thriving communities are amidst those little stalks of green.

Nothing to keep

I feel like a watermelon

Not only I coordinate the signature colors

of a watermelon...

I also feel watery

and maybe a little seedy.

My hair is as wired as the magnified scope

of the fruit's cherry-pink region.

So, fruity is my adjective today

only because I feel like a watermelon.

The angel sings when the stars pop

180 degrees upward,

tilt your head

upward

and

onward.

A flutter of wings may stir inside

as the asterism of Ursa Major broaches the night sky.

Clusters of glowing dust may just have ignited the incentive of jewelry;

the way

they dance and sparkle

could have sparked the first necklace...

ever in history.

So,...

sip, sip, stir, sip, one more stir...

this cup of joe just is not doing it.

The tremble of my sleepy hand

carries the carafe past the stream of morning light.

Oh, the heavens of this daylight...

maybe a different roast will just do the trick.

Sometimes the daylight only brings on

a certain hibernation:

sleepiness.

sleepy.

not so sleepy.

almost awake.

awake!

Oh, Ursa Major,

make my night my day.

My carafe may be in pieces

but I shan't care more.

I am awake!

What is thy potion?

I ask the cosmos in vain.

Threads of wonder weave into a rope.

An anchor lies at the end.

So, onward and upward...

bend your neck backwards

and tilt your head upward

about...

180 degrees.

Just like an adhesive

Have you ever thought

of flesh

as a form of adhesive?

It is so the truth

as the sun meets the horizon,

I sense a great relief

for that sleep is near.

Maybe be it the glow of night

that aspires the adhesive to loosen

just enough.

Creatures of the night,

creatures of the day,

creatures of the same adhesive:

Different drives,

different lights,

different approaches,

yet the same creatures.

How very interesting.

I love the daylight

as I love the moonlight.

Still, a certain freedom stands about the night.

If anything,

it is like a little bit of freedom

from the sear of daylight.

Valid or not as a rhetoric,

there is a power about the night.

It loosens the adhesive

and

allows a bit of freedom.

Put this in any light you like.

It is the nature you breathe

and bring to create.

Believing

Like a fine thread,

the mind is helplessly aimless

just until the

fine thread

connects to a needlepoint.

Finally, it then begins to weave.

The mind needs a sense of belief

in order to connect to the core.

The core of a being holds the soul.

The mind is but a mere tool.

We just have it backwards.

It is a commonly preferred or merely believed falsehood

that the mind holds such power.

Think about it;

The mind is where doubt resides.

Besides,

we all know that there is

infinity.

Even science knows it.

Now that there is infinity at all,

it's clear that we all play a part of it all.

Still, we stumble past the bit of knowledge

we believe to be vital.

Right then,...

we fail the face of surrender.

If only,...

we begin to surrender.

Oh what we would discern!