the soul that traces a lineage of dreams. the dreams that scowl in ravenous hegemony. and the shrill of the timpani. the raga of stars. are asleep on the cradle. of destiny. and continents. submerged. as if your heart were on a flute. piping melodies of beats. the carousel of blood is awake on the clouds.
and you, my gentle pearl. welcome to my sweat. the chariot of diamonds breathe nightingales of dawn. like a glass box. parents of truce. and trance and idiosyncracy. we will pause. and bow our tongues. and knit our veins. one by one, from the yarn of fools. the caricature of breaths will sparkle on my fist. these fingers of tune. these nails of rhyme. this menagerie of lust. these pebble stones of fire. the sweat. the rush. the slush of blood and silken ova. they give birth to the archaeology of dance. the footsteps of tomorrow. this ballet has begun.
in your womb. so organic and pure. i have lost my self. the pout of cotton. the lips. feel them. they are wet with rage. this is a time of confusion.
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