Pieces of Moonbeams

CXLXIII: twins of metaphors

so this is what it feels like when a piece reflects my piece. it's like my piece was extending over and over to the hands of the same artist. it's like i could dip into their surface & still can't feel what their bottom part would be.

it's like i could see myself on them: creating the same art. scribbling twins of metaphors. shaping cores of understanding. writing lines of same letters. like a child observing another child write tiny letters between blue & red notebook lines—in awe, that even if we don't have identical hands, we're still bound to stroke bodies of letters in detail--or in a chaotic one. even in simple & plain ones. even trifling fragments overlooked, for we have that particular limelight burning itself to be read.

we humans get in touch along the art's subtance molding itself into a degree: to an extent making verses over and over again. with a pause & a stop. with strokes rushing slowly too.

providing inputs of alphabets to comprehend into new slates: unscathed by worries brought by the future: unpaved by the remnants of everything melting at the back of my hand; untethered by thoughts groping my knuckles of what words will be alive.

proliferating a single word into millions of understanding. branching out minor details to reach that 'same space' or 'same area' you both want to reach. a pinnacle. a summit. a climax. a certain crest of tender breeze welling & welling from the land to circle stars around your head. a point at the eclipse where the sun & moon's fingertips pray for us to meet there—in a point wherein poetry bursts into twigs of phrases, then growing into something bigger, expanding again & again, then blossoming into a tree—into where poetic lines erupt and its fragments will wash over you.

my fragments will wash over you.
my fragments will wash over you.
my fragments will wash over you.

let me be sprinkled by drizzles of my poems, too.
let me feel what drips & drops along my tears.
let me flow into something, something not dripping.
something not flowing. a rough pavement. a monument carved to peek what world will be painted by people. a still stone. a white pebble washed on the shore.

this extends into verses we gawk out of fascination: into lines resting on the skins of art. i desire to have it anchor solely on my chest, respiring details stretched farthest in the range of its extremities—continuing to breathe until there was no air left. breathe, love; don't breathe until your lungs decay at graveyards finding air to love temporariness. don't live & love being with the same casket as mine.

i hope that we'll go beyond years stretching out bits of art someday: that we'll be pulled at verses forcing meanings to burst beauty again & again, that we'll digest metaphors perching on our stomachs. i hope that we'll go far in between concepts we don't understood... maybe even if we're away, the warmth of the sun will still chase us, until twilight befalls to write verses of poetries. to a dream i ought to live again. to a memory waking me up to kill it & dozing me to sleep to revive it again.

we aren't obliged to do so. we never really demanded to write. i didn't sign a contract that i'll paint on cosmos' blank canvas. i didn't swear to worship poetry. i didn't promise to love life the way it wanted to be. i didn't wish to burst within my core, again and again, even if there were no ounce of art left in me. i didn't have to go outside beyond borders of poetries to wonder if its beauty will still embrace me if i tiptoed like a child at that point of pinnacle.

i have my ankles traversing at locations unmapped. i am lost here. find me beneath any existing memory. search me across sceneries bursting beauty. i have my head & hands choreographing themselves into a euphoric shimmy—into angles of my eyes that always look what metaphors had reflected. what face will you express when i catch you looking? what part of me mirrors you the most? what metaphors will be buried beneath the cores of understanding? what will decay upon detours of time? i wonder if i'll be back again from nowhere. i wonder if i'll travel to routes i set to go.

i have my hands at the back of the mirror. you have to place your hand at its surface. what is the art in you? who are you without your art? let's see what art would be shown if we will not gaze at its pieces: of its mirage containing what part of you was alive currently, of what part was still breathing along us. along verses that whisper:

"aren't you a mortal being, too?"
"yes, i am, too—we all are."
"that's normal... and ordinary."
"that's what i love between you and me."

maybe it'll reflect how humane we are.

September 22, 2023
von frederick