That Which Is Said

The eyes, level with the trespassing light, enter an impinging forgetfulness.
Fearfully the mind swings in upon itself, making sure everything is in its place.

In an adjacent room memory pours out plagued by an uncertain fatigue –
almost there's a sense of the fragility of time, of the hours lost in its passing.

. . . . .

Inquisitively a weary mind wanders inside that which is said, 

while a faceless abstraction sustains philosophic proportions

ambiguously sketched within another set of chimerical eyes

transiently shifting inside the impossibility of this poem's 

fu      r

  t  h

e   ra

n            c  

e…

. . . . .

As it is dreamt, a sharp sweetness
wedges itself into the innocence of sleep.
Holding it so, the dream, with no hint of space
or timeless time spindles round, intermingling
with the blossoming of the imagination.