My Silly Stories
found the first of my blood
(While drowning in an ocean
Which had no blue, and had
No liquid), flailing on a dried flood.
I found the first of my heartbeats
(While falling down through a drum
Which had no sound, and had
No shudder), slamming muted heats.
I found the first of my wings
(While floating alongside a balloon
Which had no air, and had
No space), snatching him who clings.
I found the first of my teeth
(While jumping on a cloud
Which had no black, and had
None else than white), covering the sweet.
I found the first of my wounds
(While swimming in the sea of salt
Which had no bitter, and had
No neutralisation), healing the brutes.
I found the first of my hair
(While entangling in a bunch of cords
Which had no space, and had
No way to escape), soothing its ends with care.
I found the first of my visions
(While watching the black of night
Which had no red, and had
No sight), swooning of pastel dark incisions.
I found the first of my ceased cells
(While inhaling the smog of smoke
Which had no stinging, and had
No grey), caressing the new ones with spells.
I found the first of my breaths
(While breathing in a vacuum of air
Which had no molecule, and had
No way to let go), breezing warmth onto deaths.
I found the first of my touches
(While lying covered in red roses
Which had not left any of my skin bare, and had
No broken petals), feeling the hands of paralysis.
I found the first of my mind messages
(While sipping a deep sleep of comatose
Which had no strings attached, and had
No nervous response), seeping into a mind of wiz.
I found the first of myself
(While waiting for life to come to me
Which had no acquiesce with souls, and had
No ghost of its own), breaking itself through hell.
And that was how I found the first of my silly stories.