Untilted (A Poem)

There are pink slippers on my fingers that pad with a silky detached manner over these keys.
Attempting to create a force that seperates my knowing the path from the path knowing me.
The sky paints my pupils a plane gray today and my heart cools to stone.
But the ribbon red chords of hair spiral down and leap out across my vision.
And my soft gaze is assaulted by the vicious hunger of this spirit.
This origin that lives eternal in my mind fastened at the ledge of IMAGINATION History's highest cliff. (Honest Horror. and Tragic Truth.)
Frozen to the slimmest precipice rising and titling over growing needles of sand.
Every pore in me yawns and our thousand hearts contained within each miniature orifice simultaneously send out invitations to tiny pins to pierce in Saturday night.
For sharp, true objects to seek entry by racing force so passionate to appear soulless.
So brilliant to appear bland, how white is the container for all colors, including the ones I've never seen that some say live only in heaven (and I believe keep perfect cousins in hell).
I am the painter wanting to be painted.
And the painted wanting to paint.
I am the dragon's tooth and the pond's increasing scum.
I am the bed that's forever empty and the traveller forever lost.
I am bored at the truth and delighted by the lie.
I embrace bee stings and the way your flesh burns and the world dispears when your skin opens itself by a small tear (engaged by the world outside).
I am mashed into a paste and spread across perfectly placed bricks holding this entity together.
I am crumbling to bits on one end, letting go of the mural friends made together of friends making a mural together about friends making a mural together.
I am full where I am empty.
And false where I am full.
I am dead upon awakening.
And hungrier when I'm eating than when I'm starving, waiting in line for my fill.