Creation

Organisation bubbles lips: spreads of biology,
wispy confusion lingers in shades, arrangements;
musical in their structured baritones,
linguistic language shoots through pleasure
inside the mind's matter-of fact grey wisdom.
Molecules spit poetry's analysis,
fingers flap bones; cracking amusement.

All the while the cold wind of a deadline
crashes against syllables; abandoned, and I laugh
positive speculation into another smoke-filled lung.
Creation's such a casual being - she whispers
promises while she devours inspiration.