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August Moon / Angel on the Moon
There’s ringing in my ears.
Dappled watercolors glaze my eyes
to pool, to part
gently into the crystalline haze
where gray incense smoke huffs indignantly
in puffs, in waves and
delight.
A frown on its face.
Shadows cast in purple–
no, mauve
no, lavender
no.
It bled together, twisting
intertwined shades bursting vividly,
I could still see them when I closed my eyes.
Morning sunlight danced on
royal crimson cushions
engraved in golden
patterns
lined tassels and
the wooden backing of the low
couch cut like fresh pearl marble
under my fingertips.
My head dully throbbed
a sluggish
feverish
pulse
gaping
as I rested my hand on the cranium,
disappointment rising like bile when I felt only
shadows.
I stood on silver tiles,
their echoes boomed against
empty arches and endless ceiling.
An accompaniment
to complement
the distant gurgle
of running water.
The dining hall stretched to eternity,
the damp grayness of it untouchable
even as I am flush against the walls.
The windows were hidden
under an elusive sheen
of pale chiffon curtains,
gliding and bouncing
as if there was a breeze I could not feel.
The ringing grew and
I was under a mahogany table.
A small, round, squat one
that had splinters on the underside.
My eyes dart,
bright and pyretic
senselessly seeking
searching
longing
to hold the dark folds and edges
of the table cloth.
The light branded my skin,
the syrupy taste of it
like dying flames sticking
as I shrunk into the silver tiles.
Ebbing edges of my vision
burning and darkened
like the vignette of a polaroid.
The yellow-tassel red
dyed scratchy
fabric of the crimson pillows
cradled me upright.
I am back here now.
My head pounded lazily,
slow like crescendoing war drums.
The pain cooed and massaged my temples.
cupping slender hands around my eyes.
They shoved and me and I
plunged
into an explosion of muddy rose petals
and Chinese spices.
Thick mist enveloped me and
ran its hands through my hair.
The crimson-mauve-purple caressed
my cheeks with a
red lip grin;
Its marble was
deathly cold.
I did not blink.
I did not breathe.
The pain clutched my eyes in
phantom hands,
steadily staring back at me.
The haze lingered, silvery light
glossed over in broad strokes
of thickly layered oil paint
solidifying me
into the scene. Heady
with terror and eyeless
aching.
When I moved my head,
I dragged myself through the mud-pain.
Slimy.
thick
and all-consuming.
I’m gasping for air.
The pain tumbled off my bed
of roses and golden tassels,
of mist
and onto
silver tiles sticky
with plaster,
languid.
I looked up with dilating fever pupils
and saw the flickering white sign.
August Moon.
Everything was gone.
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A funky little memory imbued with imagery practice