POEM : A letterbox eating a blue door, is similar to kissing your own face

When you return it will feel like this.

The delicate balance of the sky can be interrupted by empty feet,

balancing on wire.

We will record the soft sounds of a geometric fringe,

and photograph the nature of resurrected butterflies.

In the evening we will make up worlds to sum up our feelings,

and when the butterflies emerge like the edge of a wrist,

we will once again idolise the necessities of a warm spoon.

The feelings ascend and immortalise on ink and paper,

suspended on black string museums.

Dinosaurs with the dreams of infinity, blue like floating marble structures,

stretch the arm of god,

and volcanoes fill with the means to pronounce the word love.

The good thing about our faces, is that they are very head specific.

The romanticised action of kissing time with light, entangles our delicate patterns,

and throws me into the fantasy of tree trunks.