When the rain sprouts,
The salty seas crystallize the trunk.
The clouds rumble aloud,
Burying each relic bead to the portent seed,
Sprouting destiny~
Heavenly tunes mark the ruins of my heart.
It’s not so simple.
That’s a question only hesitation makes,
Scrambling up the trunk of discontent.
Grotesque ceremonies bubble,
Through hopeless hippo hooves,
Skidding over marbles under shrubs.
The list carved in,
Marked one by one,
The days tick down the trunk.
It’s hard to see what it could be,
But with the right eyes, made clear to me ~
There they see each mark for what it is.
Dug deep inside, the lines remain,
A hopeful contemplation~
At least it’s the right type of love.
Each pearl dropped,
Like a xylophone on emu’s toes.
He stomped, they shook and scattered.
Peek through the mysteries,
And ragged, colored history.
I heard the herds gallop.
Those gallops turned to clicks,
As the seahorse floated,
Petals turned to shells.
Lilies like oil slicks,
Lined with tentacles,
That run to the roots,
Stinging with purpose,
Their own song,
Which dings the nails over gravel’s shells,
Left by the shedding of hungry haze.
Better days blister,
Conundrums under the sun.
I dug my head under dirt,
And wet a river to the roots,
Of all the lily shoots,
Sprouting in the ponds of melancholy.
There, the tadpoles line,
Like the muddy rims of a father’s baths ~
Copper kettles, cauldrons.
Burbled and curdled,
Nothing but the fire,
Lighting up the earlobes,
Burning out the peace,
To pieces of peaches.
In the trunk, there was a man,
Running fingers over rosebuds,
Which lined the inner shrub.
He’d been cocooned,
As the storm clouds loomed in.
He plucked the pearls from the buds,
One by one,
Then pushed them back into the trunk.
He sits and writes an infinite scroll,
On the crystallized petals of her.
He said to me:
“It’s strange.
I found today this letter I’d been writing~
It went for reams and reams,
Just like the scrolls of resin.
When in prison,
They looked out the bars and said,
‘You’ve got the wrong guy.’
I testify aloud,
For the strings and worn-out stings.”
As he carved forever in the trunk,
"Ce n’est pas le temps qui passe, mais nous."
That flower bloomed,
Bursting out the garden above.
With one word,
The knot tied with a ribbon stitched,
With one thread of
Imperturbable toughness.
Originally minted for ‘What Dreams May Come’ exhibition at Uncommon Gallery hosted by Superchief during Korean Blockchain Week.
AI Animation & Music & Poetry & Performance by Laurence Fuller
@laurencefuller
www.laurencefuller.art/web3
