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.