gentle force

and isn't it funny

that you 

in your tincil-webbed world

hack my heart 

with a pickaxe

sculpt my psyche

like playdoh

crash my dreams 

with cymbals 

and holdfast 

like a flytrap 

cloudpockets

a dense pocket of time 

inside which all felt slow

lingering

dripping with meaning 

pleasure on a bed of nails 

that in retrospect 

I revisit from time to time 

and gaze fondly upon 

only grazing the surface 

yearning for repetition.