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The edge is where i dance, with lovers and arachnid souls. Where the dirt spoils the seed and the rain created of ashes from stars feed deep rooted Juniper tree, when a moment paused a picturesque memory in pixels. Where our love bestayed our unborn bodies, not of mind nor soul, upon the thought of which the world once lived as grasshopper and fireflies.
There was a door.
The corner where i sit alone, there was a hand that pulled me from self-pity. Not of color but the absence of it; making it darker than dark itself. A shining light was at its fingertip. I was felt. It was purple that colored the sky pink of opposites and negatives when the soil became its softer feel as its fear of air overcome. The piano played single notes at a time.
There was a door.
The puddle of which i play, as a kid, simmers a ripple and at its birth, a Koi fish. It jumps, i jump. a tad pole of wonder, an artist-to-be painting the sky its evening dew and splashing bubbles. I learn from her joy.Older she grows, but wise and beautiful. My only friend she die. Next to her i lay, looking into her eyes i see a portrait of beauty...of Marilyn-Beauty. And of the sky, a portrait she paints. The last portrait.
There was a door.