emotions and the turn

the little words
in all their rhetoric and diction
the use, so the stories and nonfiction.
bent down over as to be kneeling,
only to grasp,
wire rimed lens of colored glass.
the momentary haze,
the lightness in head, ah, but a maze.
the ticking of time,
sure as her morning’s dawn…
moments were sure to come,
oh, sub real and the sublime.
platforms and pedestals
like mushrooms caps
spiraled and round,
in rings and dusted with crap.
look down, in hand…
and the rose within the lens
the wire is bent
waves of transgressions musically sent.
telepathic as hidden in rhetoric
a metronome, hear the tick?
twist and fold
push, not pulled
yes, neatly packed
will they ever lend to be so stacked
Or…ever go back?