Untameable Butterfly Emanations That Pierce The Infinite Sky Into Synchronicity

I.
The riotous rubric of a sharp rush of words
burrows deeply into delighted soulshadows,
shimmering and echoing like a crystalline, starlit cavern;

Firemouth is an eternal dragon yearning to be grounded,
yet missing only a single scale.

Witness how the elegance of her bended knees
and raucous flowering hair pulls the bowstring taut
as she center-strikes in a mountainous thunderclap.

Most majestic of muses,
you are irreplaceable and magnificent,
a beautiful chainbreaker,
a key for a lock that forgot it was a lock.

As burnt midnight rises with smoky delerium
this mountaintop chest alights on wings of insatiable singularities,
heartshapes that ruby-kiss blinking eyes into fluttering reverie;
parallel worlds sit boldly upon a old wooden table like a wizard’s wand waiting,
specters of possibility haunting the halcyon hills of a stardust-born species.

And the soft spray of your ornate waterfall
blossoms into thrilling understanding.

Soaring into the flames of cosmic stenography,
we incinerate carbon-heavy stories with splendid starspeak,
the shared language of primordial dynamite
guiding us through billion-year cosmological shadows.

A step forward neutralizes colossal magnetic fields;
stanzas of adoration come crashing feebly to the ground,
the nectar of transition metals oozing sweetly at your feet.

I am merely composed of ground
but still journey into your thrumming azure portal
where otherworldy dimensions unfold like dark matter origami in your hand,
you, lodestone warden to even the most expansive creations,
I, shattered into unworthiness,
a smiling servant scrambling for each plate-fallen crumb of comfort,
a swarm of funhouses taught the epiphany of gravity
then dropped from an infinite series of superearths
until the memories of your astonishing face begin to assemble,
as if the past was the future, and the future was the past.

II.
In these hallowed stairwells of palatial reverence,
midnight hovers in anticipation of every jagged and starry sleepscape.

Even in the pale underburn of night,
you spring forth like a canon-shot daredevil,
El Sol embracing your bright sky creativity
from the other side of the world.

Pondering the geometry of your soaring spider-web hemispheres,
I surf towards towering, endless waves of poesy:
bubble up motion, balloonrise femininity uncurling
like sunworn, bottle-bound messages,
space-time hurlings dancing jigs into the poetic abyss,
rhythms elucidating the magical oceans of the present,
wardrum beats enough to transmogrify the moon into a second star.

III.
Cool aloofness of night
that swirls in the evening swell.

Inspiring howls of human poetry
that tickle my spiralling heartsong.

Oh,
how I wonder
what sublime stars
you are under.