Lost in Time

The sun is a leaking citrus, bleeding gold onto the enduring Cafe, where the walls are papered with the sighs of lost Sailors at sea.

 It never mattered what time it was, for the clock is a rusted liar; here, we trade our pulse for the hum of a charcoal wire.

I was always lost in art, a ghost in a gallery of neon storms, drifting through the ink until the shadows took their forms.

 Only when I look down at my watch does the fever start to break, but I command the brass gears to stop and freeze for a moment’s sake.

Listen…the Sunday Song Birds are blooming like night-ivy, climbing the rafters to catch the stars in a net of harmony. 

When we sing, we lose ourselves in the resonance of the bone, but when they sing, 

we get lost within them, adrift and unknown.

We fall into their mystery and magic, a plunge into the deep, where the sirens of the canvas wake the senses meant to sleep.

 But that doesn’t matter, for the drowning is a gilded, holy thing, it is so joyous and freeing to feel the weightless pull of the string.

To lose track of time is to find the key to the locked-room heart; all art does that, every bit of it, tearing the mundane apart. 

So never look back at the salt-pillars of the ghosts you used to be, and don’t look forward toward the fog of a shore you cannot see.

Just be as open as possible, a vessel with a broken seal, let the universe pour its nectar through the cracks of what is real. 

For when the mind is a wide-flung gate, the heavy world grows thin, and all of life will enter in.

_____________________

Come tomorrow and lose yourselves 

   with us,

     at the UnUrban Cafe