We are all dreamy creatures.
That live on the foreground of arrases
That fall from the sky, and the muscle
Of our own fabric that we interweave
From the way we see this turquoise world.
And like how a thread floats in the eye of a needle
Reality floats on the pupil hung on the tip of an iris.
Life is all about the fabrics you stitch
From the tireless needle shrouded inside an aperture,
And what floats out through the crack
Are those careless loose-threaded dreams that fall frequently at night
But what keeps the sensors beneath the cracks alive
Are those dreams that never sleep, or know
The meaning of surrender.
It only takes one seed to grow a mango tree
Full of bulbs, each telling a story of its own,
What turns brilliant gold, to the Midas’s touch
Of the needle in your eye, which in the long haul
Becomes your inimitable vision.
Oh look at those bulbs on the mango tree.
How different they are, some brilliant, some canary yellow
Some chartreuse, some plain green, each ripened
To a different degree of fruition, each different
In its strength of hold to the stem. All you need to do
Is to extend your palm and pluck the golden ones.
To taste a reservoir of unheralded sweetness.
Beyond the brink of an over-cusped dream.