paintchips

crinkling petals from yesterday's gestures

infuse vague notions of time

sprinkling impressions almost forgotten

into notions already designed

to tint the walls with echoes

and stain the hues of consent

into a dreamland of muted sound

and the distortion of all pigment.

Bleaching and dying

and patching our scrapes

with the meanings we merely regurgitate

from our our constricted bowels;

the unspoken vowels

not pronounced as succinctly as implied

between the clipped phrases

and interminable spaces

of the lines

of the stories

of our lives.

What is this waking daze we're in

but undigested experience

inflaming the aperture of our eyes?