Aesthesis

For art to breathe,

touch lifts into sound,

and sound tastes of color.

For the senses to eat at sanity,

to make dissonant the shadow of memory:

heated, twisted,

wrapped around the cold brass

of the physical world,

slips hazy emotions.

One is a milky, euphoric strain,

melting into chocolate tones,

building into a nebulous froth-

a juxtaposition of warmth

and loneliness,

living as one.

Another sits,

waiting, patient.

Building into the slightest,

slightest glisten of pain,

wrenching deep at the heart-

Yet sunlight still glides effortlessly

across an empty city street,

a warm breeze

softening the crisp February air,

comforting, assuring,

holding still

that which was not meant to be.

The last, powdery velvet:

sifted into smoke, threaded

through a purple-pink musky fragrance,

wrapped in cobalt cotton,

an aftertaste of happiness.

Shadow-streaked light

creeps silently, sullenly,

across.

A blood-dark melody, a screaming sigh,

softened, then muted-

building around silken tufts of

sentiment, wrapped tightly

in luminous cerulean-

waxy, glossy

packaged neatly-

put away.

If the body is

a blossom with no scent,

if it is

without color to inspire the eyes,

if it is

a whole work of artifice-

Then what is it

that makes some

one?