In the
yonder realm of tranquility
Heat waves
weave the ripples of a lost world,
The motifs
of utopia in the forms of oddities
As sharp as
a paroxysm but meaningless to bare eyes.
In this
bustling realm of forms
Self-love flares
as viral as secondly bigotry,
Pique and chagrin
just unleashed reactions
As crude as preached
sanctimonies—
As fastidious
as secondly updates,
As assiduous
as automated functions.
Then perfectionist’s
search for the best,
The yonder romanticism
as false as Shangrila here.
But search on
with thy mountain paranoia!
But search on
saying ‘life is short.’
But search on
saying the opposite!
But search on
to the end of the world!
Nay prevaricate
but better face it,
When thou encounter
just oddity at last,
For it’s what
it’s—what solidity attrition-proofed?
But, bravo, the
secret lies in mere tuning it.
Tune it to set
those countless odds as incentives;
Tune it to skim
over rather than shove against;
Tune it to enlighten
on ever;
Tune it for friendlier
coloration.
And to be able
to tune in and ask:
‘When one-sightedness
betrays,
When physical
stimuli is mere glazed over,
Shouldn’t I accept
the uniqueness yet?’
