The thin human line and the digital explosion

You love the touch of your hand
Your body without floor
As on an orange bed of fog
It seems you do not hold hand
You are twelve feet tall
It is more sensual a road without frontiers
Nobody touches your footprints
A desire to open with your index finger
And your liquid-crystal eyes
a cloister with thousands of years
to polish the sound of your brain
and to walk farther than any limits
or directions sustaining all without a sound
and a body. Where the line ends or
if there is nobody it does not matter.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2017

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Date: 6/30/2017 10:05:00 AM
This is wonderful. I love your thoughts and apt creativity. Welcome to poetry soup.
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Eduardo Escalante
Date: 6/30/2017 10:26:00 AM
Thankful for your comment, you know how to write excellent poems