Prosaic First Glance: Escapists (That See)

Tomorrow's call fractures the silence - the bell
of daybreak - yet skies would seem still as the
paths to yesterday

the street lights flutter in the wake of restless stir, and
twilit feelers tangle in intention,
clockwork, and senseless is evanescent
and, my, the aurora are fine on our wingtips...

drawings of breath in words, it is thievery, it is why,
overhearing is only half,
no need for skydrops, because we've seen them before
encompassed by and sparked within

and they say what they say, but it's otherwise:
escapist times two in a chamomile refuge
with covered trails betraying wake -
just a hideaway where light may cave in

and the bells are calling - hello,
broken conundrum -
this isn't sadness, this isn't pain, this is laughing in the jewelled rain,
and I promise, if you do...

no more than a trace of fallout, but it's there;
I confess that I'm a little unsteady,
but I'll stow my existentialisms in cruet to
spice our depth, though it is too soon in the loyal sense.
haven't I said? Beholders hold nothing!

sight fails to be real
so drink away the night (that we so love) and there it is -
a little perfect on the uptake.

A/N - Interpretations, anyone?