meringue on taste buds
ephemeral, yet more sublime
than wars of unknown battalions
set up to call on death.
When invited, it dwells
in residues of ashen hopes
cigarette smoke in a box
liquid, smooth, like silver
carving rivers of forgetfulness
in its wake, undivided.
It orbits uncharted territories
like electrons, a nucleus
particles whirring, never collide
timeless, yet eternally gravitating
like water, sea in motion,
a green and blue that never stops.
It spreads on cold tiles
like maps of the multiverse
millennia pile, stretch endlessly
a time-lapse pastiche of mute chaos,
no raging thoughts or feelings,
merely a bitter aftertaste.