Vulcanus burns in my gut, Mercury wings through my veins, Minerva crafts in my mind, Morpheus, control thy my dreams? The mountain's heart boils and beats, smoke rising in balloon plumes. Sandy crags melt into obsidian glass. The earth's gorge rises. Tempt me, tell me - drawing lines into circles without beginnings, endings, or only beginnings, endings? Inquiries without satisfaction: was the wind brisk enough today? Were the clouds sufficiently grey? Do turtles even enjoy child's play? Madness, elucidating smells only in colors, sculpting poetry of a headache, convincing whales they might fly, if God draws that square circle.
It is not, it is not what it is.
This night is a mad night, a sleepless night. Words tumble past mythologies past vagaries, sweeping into dust devils of thought, mirages. I imagine the northern lights, metallic, plasma dance in fickle pastels and galvanic, impatient, shimmering curtains, as thoughts, leaping across my mind like these meteors, streaking as searing lines across this night. But gone! gone! Clouds cover my conscious, and ideas are skipping stones bouncing into sand, never sinking into those silver patined clouds of architect. I suppose I'll watch the shooting stars instead, and wish just one more time.
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