Some of them are drifting vapor,
fluid pastel flavoring my tongue.
When awake, they linger like nectar,
or the hidden symbols of Jung.
Others are more like nesting dolls,
hand painted selves inside of selves,
secret centers wrung in reluctant recalls.
Narcotic sleep concocts misshapened shelves.
Still others are Fabergé eggs,
grandiloquent intricacies, ornate and refined,
interior parlors absent of regs.
Fantastic reservoirs are carefully designed.
But most of them are made of celluloid,
cinematic and impossible to avoid.
Published in the first PoetrySoup anthology- 11/20
Copyright © Thomas Wells | Year Posted 2020
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