I know in my heart of hearts, there’s indigo,
between the pools of thick crimson,
the dabs of near-violet on white,
and especially, the false blues of midnight.
Yet, there’s a vast sea of teal between them,
and I must swim to meet them halfway.

A patchwork of aura, seems just out of reach.

Who’s there to say, that auroras aren’t to blame
for stains on a canvas coming off as portals,
and it’s simply their magnetism
making the hairs behind me stand on end
in canyons; creating valleys, ravines,
and crevices dug by erosion and saline?
Who’s to say that poltergeists aren’t poltergeists,
and really, just a form of gravity?

A patchwork of aura, seems just out of reach.

The darker the corners, the longer the questions,
and if you had the chance to answer them,
you’ would do so, in essays of worn out novella, respectively.
It’s settled in snowfall, when snowflakes compound,
meet me between discovery and naivety,
then we can learn to question in different shades.

A patchwork of aura, seems just out of reach.