As much as you can try to grasp
This is but dream dust,
Wrapped in every syllable.
Every word heard, a shout or a cry
From metallic tongue.
Window pane raindrops
Are mandalic jewels
Ashine in the vapid glow
Of some council street light.
A drama of your mind’s own making
Where nettled faces leer, shifting and pulsing.
The beatific vision nesting in brick and moss,
An electric, orgasmic, cathartic something
Shared; heads spinning in synesthetic storms.
With eyes fixed shut for lysergic revelation.
You are drenched with astonishment
Edging through the mudded track,
The wind a hundred orchestra strings,
Devastatingly beautiful; breath on bare skin.
Truth flails in this smokey euphoria; too close to be touched.
A purple winged-flash; awe bites down on your unfamiliar lips
And you’ve caught but a gasp.