The world Invertal is barren
A civilization of once-was
Everyone remaining is a stranger
Everyone remaining is an artist
Zaccharine is a poet.
this liquid crystal reflects the infinite
so hyptonic, kaleidoscopic, it's swaying rainbow
of colors we could not name, we could not see
like visual sounds for only the dog’s ears,
the ocean holds audible colors
for the armored slugs within it
We dream of wading in, perhaps
feeling the chromatic orchestra
where the eyes could not
but the prismatic flow cuts the body
dear forbid it enters the lungs
Beauty incomplete to our eyes
Is not lost on us, is still beautiful
To cherish its untouchable light
The world’s full name is not needed
Just one wonderful photo
from an album lost in fire
cherished, but
not worth dying to retrieve
Red and Orange hills are what they offer
Warm ground and idle wind
Cutting through this grass
Tumbling the flower’s cap
Into the engorged puddle
Of water it once drank
This Verdigris...
Painting crude, Dry brush, yes
Suitable growth for copper dirt
Pock-marked with these ponds
Artistic in it’s erosion
Things here still thrive
Things once were animals
That remain in the brush
They remain timid
Twisting and ticking, clicking,
The sick yet flourishing denizens
Sharing a start at a stranger's noise
New visitors break away rubble
violent footfalls from the inexperienced
They breathe in new sunset dust
Crimson clouds of rust
That masquerades as dirt
Cacophony,
Coughing, me,
You, I wonder
Do we share these lungs