Poetry Twisted Dream

Petrified hall of blue glass. Delicate animations slowly vibrate from within. The corridor is filled with broken mirrors and the faces are warped beyond repair. A shattered grandfather’s clock, illuminated by a cold moonlight, smells of fermented wood. The rusted pendulum is motionless. Meandering through the galley, shadows bounce off the bits of floating mirror dust. Angles scoping angles fades perception- like a martyoshka doll. Withering and twisting along the tangential slope to a point where change can only be measured by the weight of ether; dim memories await. Flowing imagery permeates this dark house of gentle terror. The fireplace smokes with hidden flames. Golden curtains glimmer with emptiness.
Transportation many times the speed of light is commonplace. Behold the dark cloud there! It is taking the shape of the daemon. Outside now, in this silent universe of colloidal memories that are printed on quicksilver. The moonlight shines from a new moon and the air has ceased to exist. We are in the Land of Pools; a place where all comes together through dwarfed allure. We are at the hub of creation, hiding inside a slither of warm ice. There are only grey stones, long glaciated with suffering. We are encompassed with vast expanses of space. The pools, with their metallic gleam, demonstrate the reflectivity of nature. They are not made of liquid. They are not commanded by law. Galactic energy pours down and collects into a reservoir of stillness and a point of expression.