Before Dusk

Spring;

Monumental equinox of your crystal wrist,
And lucid forests in the middle of illogical catastrophe.
There is a reason behind Plato's subliminal idea.

Your eloquent whiskers, and fragile shoulders are the midnight dreary of April's humid hour.
You were still there a day after the explosion of the annual tour.
And light years later,

Gone, gone by the misshapes of the sea.
Broomstick hair and ceramic have become my humble blanket, and I am not conscious.
Shifting to my cellular brain,
As if I was human