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The Chrysanthemums


by Zoya Marincheva


Scattered helter-skelter on the ridges of perception,

phantasms of freedom plague the order of life.

When the landlord leased you

these four walls, he said,"Now you have vectors. We can tell you exist."

So your brain constructed a pyramid that annihilated time,

then attached eyes of a fly to your gentle vision of beauty,

the eyes being the fifth dimension.


Stunned by the holy sanctity of the act of spontaneity

in the expression of his free will, the man

began to brainstorm the limitations of his salvation.

When you reached the land of the hundredth dimension

a dragon smoldered your bones and imprisoned your mind

into the darkest cavern of curiosity.

Your vectors by then had become the Chrysanthemums of Renoir.

Who knew that the bluish glitter of magic enthralling the petals

was your thread of life?


Amid spiraling human degradation per the laws of nature

a man's highest point is hearing the meditation song

of His Mother, seeing His Father hammer nails in the walls.

Hush, little baby, don't you cry. Every nail in the wall

digs a tunnel to freedom.


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