Because We're Different

The road is a mountain from which the sunshine bounces  
splicing back into the sentiment mist I shattered of blowball.    
    
This hand flops round in the easy wind of an uttering mill goodbye,    
retracts    
on the red frame.    
The image protrudes, but I seal it in steel clips    
that rust it off at my headrest.    
     
Awakening in sea water    
brimmed up my chest from a pact committed on the back of dreaming,    
the back of mine knots under the willow phrases of reality.    
     
That image    
that was the artist's lover    
is just an image.    
I won't sick it free on my wrinkles    
in a vague responsibility    
that pierces like phoenix rocks in the bath.    
     
She is not my company    
though the feather mosaic of her hair    
mocks of that lion herb    
garden valley through the screen.    
     
The cars that try cross that road    
welcome spikes    
of a distance reinforced    
by the lapse of the 3D minds    
existent across separate realities    
homely art failed to capture in its brushes.    
     
The art may run free,    
and I'll be afraid    
of a subject not swept by the pen in my hands.