Perhaps you are right
that the world is spent.
No magic, just patterns and disarrays.
Black and white,
paper and graphite.
perhaps you are wrong.
perhaps the clichés of poets,
are clichés for a reason,
love and thou shalt know,
how love turns your soul into cake shop.
where the textures are put in,
and out emerge pastries!
vanilla,butterscotch,blackcurrant?
life a proustian magic,
the dichotomy peeling like snakeshell,
the world not a water-oil tendency,
but a beautiful colloid,
sense cascading into sense,
an acrylic paint
theinvertedpoetry 