by I0na Verse
A thorny geology of green and colored glass pressed together under pressure now hangs and tinks together from high heavy branches. Straw and silk summery nights, long against the thinnest skin evoke labyrinths where once was a meadow. An unraveled shape causes the only shadow to become a half- shadow within the lace of bamboo walls; the sound is soothing but any louder and my ears might pleasantly evanesce.
I am riding around in a cart choosing music.
There are indications that this garden once held rings and vessels of earthy rain and lavish pools of bubbling enthusiasm. As if to tell of luxuriant leisure time – a different kind of tiredness – where light could be intensely studied. Where bushels of thorns placed sideways and perpendicular at precisely 4:06pm on a certain day would create in their shadow the shape of freedom.
Where under the soft rich topsoil a fissure hissed but never opened.
Where on a molecular level self-transcendence happened even to the air.
This opulent dead garden proudly projects its flickering movie in time to blinking eyes and tinkling glass, offering a backstory, revealing her terrarium as another wedding party begins to arrive.
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In my mind I can imagine what you describe, though I wonder if my imagination of this landscape is anything worthy or what yours might look like :)