Butterflies and Un-faces
Flitting like a lily on a tepid waterfall (get it)
I wonder what color your eyes are.
Every see your foot land on purple grass and feel the prickles in the pads of your toes, then wonder quietly in your head, cause you don't want any other walkers to look at your strangely, "Why are my feet so pale?" Why is it that the purple grass is the only normal part of the dream-atmosphere, and the people with un-faces trotting by are friends you've spent your life with?
And yet in life, when an un-face approaches your home, domain, world, you spit and yell, say "get the hell out" because something unexplainable repels you? What of the green sandals in the closet that you used at the beach last summer in which a sharp shell had coasted and split your foot?
What of those green shoes?
"colorless ideas sleep furiously" and here we are in this promenade, on an island.
I hate un-faces. Stop it.
Old Scribbles
