Too many thoughts
have not reached out beyond the cranium’s
osteal to be understood.
Secret ones beguile the pastures
of our latitudes
rustle deep like white anemones in the blue
forests.
I keep my counsel
neat in some regards being elementally
though not laterally
wise.
Tulips leap from their fires. My eyes
reflect
the ethos of an opaque mineral
of a studious delay, imprints of the seen
not absorbed by maturity
still unfledged.
The universe tugs at my soul
frightening its poltergeist. Whispers
conspire like platitudes or a knowledge
I’ve not yet been trusted with
or prepared myself
for.

Photo by Stefan Stefancik from Pexels