Factual
This morning is dangerously close to truth.
The sunlight is in bold print,
the figurative blocked out in black and white.
The under-brain
(that sleepy chameleon with diamond eyes),
blinks at a high-rise concrete reality,
eschews poetry for a stark reportage.
The summer blooms and hummingbirds
are not wooden, yet their picturesque
mien and dress
belong in a less brazen realism.
Nothing much flies in more subjective skies.
Beneath an introspective sea
just a few fanciful thought-threads
dangle loosely from misty metaphyseal squids.
The mind must turn to arcane myths
for unobjectified mysticism,
however a short-sighted ground hog
dismisses these inner reflections
as it eats an existential
bright red geranium.
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