in my shoes, a man in metamorphosis, mesmerized
by the magic of the past, a tragedy of a thousand lies.
It's the magic of being stuck in time.
The eyes, far out-shined, fragmented by truth,
were much brighter before we ever met.
But you gave them light and hope,
through those blue beacons of your own,
piercing orbitals of your older magic,
which cast a spell so blissful--
I fell for you like I wanted nothing more,
because no other weaves spells as intricately as yours.
The magic of being stuck in time.
Incurred by right brain overload, I gaze left,
toward dangling beads, mementos, bracelets and wristlets alike,
each every one, of love acquired or love passed.
Your tones--yellow, orange, blue music notes--
now faded, in allegory of the present,
are all I have left of your world.
Tragic, being stuck in time.
Today, your belle resonates.
Breathe in those memories,
locked inside the time capsule of your aura.
An imaginary container with no directions,
save a mental note, to keep moving forward, to never pry,
but to lie.
If only to rob a dead man, you linger in my conscious,
the resin of our affairs fueling our insanity.
Here's me, dying, to pry.
