When they pried open his eyelids
you could see the great abyss.
Not to confuse silence with discontent
or tall shadows for what truly exists.
The night will grow old
and the stars will break
from their cloud’s smoky hold
while the piazza beneath
grows ever more lonely and cold
to the lodger with no where to go but to wander.
It is cold enough to see all that is dislodged
like the smoke from chimneys drift up
to the stars, even more pronounced
in the bright cloister garden’s climb to moonlight.
Drifting past campanile towers of silent bells
wearing stone to break the footsteps
of whispers waking shadows
of crosses and cloister pillars.
The old well was a source of inspiration,
the deliberate drips
like paths crossing on trips
to the center of the city.
All the shades and silhouettes distract
with shadowplay to attract the attention
of those who pass by underneath.
Paper panels slide
like shifting channels late at night,
these luminescent snenes
appearing in darkened buildings
with the flick of a solitary light
is held suspended
like a dangling figurine
tied to the end of a lucid dream.
Feet will never grace the inside,
the mind will never touch the ground,
until all the fabric was unwound
and falls silently as snow will
to the bare feet of the screen
where all the rest was briefly tantalizing.