I climb on my breath, gossamer thread
twines in branches secreted from sight
in the dark heights of consciousness.
Words hover in stasis, fall all over a little later
like knotted hair of an emaciated monk:
silence after the raging wind renders havoc.
The footfalls are covered by a fine dust,
the dull thud dislodges shell from the back of snail,
quietness like fabric covers the proboscis of senses.
Colors implode behind eyes, crests of mountains
get indistinct as viscous river of lava flows thick,
glues the lids and creates a rich firework inside.
The wakefulness remains unbroken, loud bur of images
like plague of gnats embed in the cornea of thought,
purple heart of candle lost in the glare of radiance.
Pinpoint of diamond where million paths of light converge,
cuts through the sheet of glass noiselessly, layers
like wafers are shed and what remains is emptiness.
My Garden 