Strange Morning - Robert Maccagli

Lips open.

Their tones are painted in a deep crimson,

wrapped around hazy blue eyes stained with notes of 

lemon.

gazing at stars who look on, with horror, at an omen.

Below a smile that's melting a mushroom gives his 

sermon

 from the book of the dead...

The Bardo Thodol...

"Let conceit of what has been go.

 Blame not the ephemeral chain of time

 Unlatch the links to the future, and quiet dread.

 Respite in a boundless fashion, never hanging on now. 

A weaver goes not to the loom if no wool is to be found,

the nature of reality will be unveiled through unruffled 

diligence,

for not a thing can discompose you."

informing of its knowing,

In wispy clouds, the moon is dozing.

A UFO through the spectral sky, enclosing,

abducting with indigo and jade beams.

While Saturn has turned magenta, as it’s spinning and 

glowing.

With half-open eyes, the sun rises, shining mellow and 

bright

rays of apricot and yellow, upon dahlias and poppies 

who cast no shadow.