Intuitive Interior
They say “Intuition isn’t enough”
As you must be accountable.
The scent of bleach, taints.
Papers feigned chemical clarity.
Charlatans blinker print.
The sentiments expressed,
Mean less to me than silence.
Observations at harvest.
Unfiltered meaning. Wordless.
Transparency untranslated.
Seeing the eyes, their angle.
The facial muscles uncover.
The unavoidable language,
Non-verbal. Purest punctuation.
Need no explanation, it’s clear.
Blurted out blanket ideology.
Sentences, either for attention,
Oftentimes misdirection entirely.
You can be read, without cover.
The opposite intent, than said.
A maze to myopically minded,
Distilled into narrative here.
Those utterances, stored.
As inside intuitive gears grind.
The seeing’s in watching.
The meaning, the sum of all.
Deeds leanings, heavier.
The cordiality of obfuscation.
The tallest teller spoken aloud,
An easy differentiation dye,
To stain the hidden invisibility.
With an ink that’s indivisible.
Indiscernible from lies, to me.
Deceit by omission, the given.
A truth, never whispered.
Yet. It barriers our transition.
About the Creator
Paul Beckett
I’m a writer, horologist & joy filled explorer. Reality to me is plastic. I’m fascinated with time, quantum physics, analogue and fashion.
My writings at least 69% autobiographical, often 99%
Fav:Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams- S.Plath
Keep reading
More stories from Paul Beckett and writers in Poets and other communities.
Comments