where meaning is made

Hyacinth garden

in a time where meaning is made up of meanings

really the only meaning is love and that is no disgrace

but if we were a mere trace

like a variation in pitch

without confused identity

where fire is a dream

subtle and slightly secret

could you tell a cloud it is crazy for wanting to go
in this body of the lotus

it is like

asking a flower where it wants to grow

and dreaming

it is as if we are substance in the dust

while we wait for a gust

with strings attached

we are intricate in a sea of captivity

we yearn for the ring of a bell

foreign to us

inside of a shell

as if in blue

bound by the finest strands

of lost dreams and hopes

the words pause

and waver

among the shadows

living lost

freedom never found

remember the taste

free of binds

those that keep the sands of time

in another place

all hidden in the memories of love

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