Penning letters (to a tee) for both the know and unknown,
my quill drips enigmatic because my heart trips in the meadow.
Fluttering here and always elsewhere…
the recourse of the past melds with
an uncorked bubbling of untouchable gas.
Always there, in the distance, is a golden dream.
Yet the mid-distance is ever full of shadowy seas.
The foreground bears the weight of a heavy peace,
in a way that bears light for all that is clean.
Brutal can be the truth when mixing hope with delight,
but Truth is unforgiving:
The dreamiest of dreams are the hardest to release.
The haunted distances are construed of minuscule blips.
However… molecular are those elements, they do bear entities.
Slight are the separations… unless measured against normalcy…
because the haunted sense of awareness is formed of disconnected memories.
Or, this might all just be misconstrued.
First draft, in the sense that this could maybe be cleaned up a bit. Whatever its form, this hauntedness is real.