Found. Found as if lost was a state that could change. Everything charged and vibrating; it was easy to move. It seemed so innocent to find a shiny little shard and put it in a pocket – dark and unfamiliar.
Woolly and soft.
A tiny adventure for the inanimate has brought it to life.
I could stack metaphors like bricks of builds, carve them intricately into doors, bring them rolling down clouds with tentaive rain – and still be lost.
I could find the words, direct and sharp, angle them exactly, bring them piercing through skin like needles – and still not know.
Words, vibrations, sounds are not light. Light is my language. Colour drops from my tounge.
Only a spectum, fast and high – behind a divine scent, under an incoherent sound, through a taste – will change a state.
At dawn I will hold this glassy geometry to light and look. Is it just an object?