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Poem

In my brain, a neon butterfly flickers hysterically,
Drawing with antennae of light the map of an unknown city.
Its streets are pulsing veins, the buildings - vertebrae of crystal,
And in the squares, wax statues weep tears of mercury.
I wander through this labyrinth of consciousness, where each step
Is a syllable from the universal poem that binds us, you and I,
Two solitary neurons in a cosmic synapse,
Bathed in the amniotic fluid of art that births us anew.
I look through multicolored cellophane windows and see
How reality melts like ice cream in the sun,
Dripping into the open mouth of metaphor, sweet and bitter,
Nourishing the embryo of the dream growing in the womb of imagination.
My words are mechanical butterflies buzzing in your ear,
Laying eggs of meanings in the corners of your mind,
And from these chrysalides of thoughts will emerge
Idea-birds that will fly to the sky of our shared understanding.
In this universe of paper and ink, we are
Characters and authors, readers and books alike,
Rewriting each other's genetic codes of the soul,
Until the boundary between you and I becomes an osmotic membrane.
And then, in that moment of total fusion,
When art absorbs us into its galactic womb,
We become constellations of pure sensitivity,
Shining in the vast darkness of the creative void.

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