Ripples from Raindrops: Carlin
I see her reflection on my watch (a face on a face) as it is in her
nature to be seen in mirrors and smoke instead of crystal glass.
Subtle touches of forest green in otherwise black eyes, eyes that reflect
escapades of musical pegasuses aloft on wings spun from ivory
are kaliedascopic and inmmensly unchartable, with sea blue as her guide and
rivalling swabs of violet as her pathways.
Catching wayward ideas, she directs them in a blinding intensity too
hungry for my taste. So while I am meandering, she is already
chasing a dragonfly dream into a storm of music
and Chopin nocturnes that are more my style than hers.
Rhetorically, I aske her the meaning of
life. I am not at all surprised she answered that it is to find
in new dreamscapes a way to express oneself
not bound by riboons of hesitation and misjudgement. She has lived.