Primitive dreams

Did you lose your way…

along the passages through the cliffs?

Falling, falling, lips brushed cold          Midnight night skies,

to the warmth of Gauguin‘s light.

Pressed iced glass colors                  Calmness washed absent

Flight, from civility                               Bohemian magic

Rediscovery in                                   Pressed fingers pulse beat

The rhythm of paced breaths             the pearls dropped …

spilling on to floor stealing                  the shimmer of pale moons.

Bending images back

Into an Iris penetrating….

nike e. bottalico