SKYFLOWER/A GYPSY SOUL

Every Amber has it's current,

slow moving pitch,

Silver, Gold, diamond vessels,

in gemstone lexicons,

if form could be anything but a word,

a movement, a gesture, time.

In the garden's vacuous mindswept virga,

light rains upon the hidden acquiescence,

of a textbook accord with uncertainty

made of a prescient precipitous concrescence,

fusing fission.

One hundred and eleven is like a chant, aummmmm,

a sacred syllable of three unified sanctified elements,

transcending limitation.

Underworld chthonic, world aetherial, Heavens sublime,

ground domain of sky domains of stars.

Silence cascades in vacuous void,

in a cartography of Medusal admixtures,

mythos of concrete aggregates, ebbing elemental.

A vernacular of placement adumbrates consigned concinnity,

in the imbricated lips of a kiss,

where all analogy of form is frozen in time,

in the mnemonic of a soft memory.

Somewhere between conjecture and hope,

He tends to the sky flowers,

growing in mid air,

petal borealis,

moon halo,

and monumental whisps of light,

waning and waxing galaxies,

faint webwork panopticons,

cascading aeolian,

though the mind be fertile,

it is empty without having also

a gypsy soul.

POEM AND IMAGE © 2016 by Peter Kaleb Theodoropoulos AKA Rockwell Wilder