WABI SABI IMPERFECT PERFECT, in my right brain
What will it be like?
when I frequently arrive to a
hushed flight of pauses—dipping and soaring the welkin of constant cerebral activity, cracked
open with parting curtains of quiet, skeins of quietude—gratitude for skin-tingles either side of a bell
spilling into pools of silence, soothings of sooty gray sky quivered by Victorian lacings echoing an
exquiste mend: veins of gold-dusted laquer, lacing porcelain Quan Yin, Wabi-Sabi imperfect,
tracing her mercy of silences into a canvas of sound.
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