the map is not the territory

the yearning is not the journey

yet the labyrinth is carved in human flesh

by the agency of desire;

in dark gardens what’s left unfinished blossoms,

the constellations of fears and dreams

turn into indigo flowers;

lost souls will forever hover

above the rustling foliages of abstractions

looking for an impossible wholeness or

perhaps the seed-bearing fruit;

you see, in the sinking gardens

the closing of the gates conforms to

a non-linear dynamic so

there’s no purpose in the quest or

the peacock’s cry.

i was so fond of you

but now

i am so tired.

in metaphor, solace,

in shadows, redemption;

an alien moonscape feeds on the silence;

among the disembodied voices

i sleep no more.

everything that rises must converge.