Sunday, June 14, 2015
Mind is a corridor – dark, dank, desolate; in the deep stillness of the night an indistinct stir.. The songs whistle through in wavering crescendo until they find their nooks to sit, fluff and fold their wings and sleep.
Mind has its despairing dead ends, unfinished tales, untold lore – they exist in a perpetual pudibund swoon. When awaken, they give birth to the thorny throat beasts clawing inside a trembling neck.
Mind has it’s crawlspaces where every giggle and gasp is accentuated. Delirious acoustics makes a dripping tap unbearable, a drop in the wind soothing. Mind is a lattice of worm holes that collapse upon themselves and spawn a labyrinth.
At times you find a small snail-track, silvery like liquefied moonbeam unspooling away, rounding a corner and suddenly a door! You open and mind is a ferocious garden. Hidden by a clump of desolate shrubs you may come across a shy lily, hiding within its nervous corolla a hushed magnificence. At another end an orchid, almost lurid in its beauty. It lures you until you see a gasping bee tumbling out of its luscious, poisonous whorls.
Mind has unexplored trails laden with redolent rosettes that purl away into the forest dim.