Dear Mystery Killer,
Keep me with my wonder, woeful as it may make your logical left brain, keep your words out of my veins. I beg of you, keep me in my unknowing, so that I may see a flower – though named before – as a new miracle, a sacred geometric unfolding transfixed by ray of light. Tell me, how in memory does the scent of an orchid take flight? Labeled have you the parts of the eye, but how is it that you factually see, that because I choose to embrace the wonder, somehow the world has gotten the best of me? I lift my head from the pillow, I am more awake than you remember, more awake than the soul you can’t hear sing, overridden with logic that lays behind to clip your wings. Speak to me when sleepless nights, that wrap your rib-cage with the lullaby illusion of knowing through touch, grow old and from your heart release their tired clutch. We are more than physical. Your bed of arrogance is comfortable, and though I may seem trapped to you, it is your mind that is not free, and so your understanding of my spirit, will always swiftly flee.
by Kevon Simpson © 2014