Do We See The Same Thing? - Dustin Vado
Do we see the same thing
as we look through a window to a wall?
I see boulders arranged
by an ocean of shrimp
in the forest
of the oldest living things.
A volcano erupts to a scene of cats
that make snow angels in the ash
and eat the falling nutrients...
Never a monochrome particle unseen
flying in tandem with butterflies
handcuffed in certain fall.
Cartoon faces glare in
opposite directions
with shades of ice staying in wayward grey
painting bridges that connect them
to highways in the veins of oil.
Picturesque in all poly,
all knowing image,
the pane of silent voice
reveals porcupines for vocal cords
padlocked together
nuzzling the trachea.
Broken spines hang like
trophies on hooks in a meat locker
won by outlasting
ages of reason in frigid wait
for ages of love.
Gazing through this window,
this painting,
this art,
this message,
do we see the same thing
as those who stare back
in confused entertainment
from light-years away?
That incomprehensible distance irradiates our seats
and brightens our hearts
as we peer through prayer of window
at rorschach scenes of blotted color
and absorb the ink.
We are the eyes of a sponge
extracting stars from far away dusks
wringing out our own sunsets
over beaches of imagination.
as we look through a window to a wall?
I see boulders arranged
by an ocean of shrimp
in the forest
of the oldest living things.
A volcano erupts to a scene of cats
that make snow angels in the ash
and eat the falling nutrients...
Never a monochrome particle unseen
flying in tandem with butterflies
handcuffed in certain fall.
Cartoon faces glare in
opposite directions
with shades of ice staying in wayward grey
painting bridges that connect them
to highways in the veins of oil.
Picturesque in all poly,
all knowing image,
the pane of silent voice
reveals porcupines for vocal cords
padlocked together
nuzzling the trachea.
Broken spines hang like
trophies on hooks in a meat locker
won by outlasting
ages of reason in frigid wait
for ages of love.
Gazing through this window,
this painting,
this art,
this message,
do we see the same thing
as those who stare back
in confused entertainment
from light-years away?
That incomprehensible distance irradiates our seats
and brightens our hearts
as we peer through prayer of window
at rorschach scenes of blotted color
and absorb the ink.
We are the eyes of a sponge
extracting stars from far away dusks
wringing out our own sunsets
over beaches of imagination.