Mortal Galaxies

Hidden colors beckon me

more than outward hues

displayed deliberately.

I am bewitched by

the blazing inner nebulae

of the psyche,

never a single shade

but a collision of colors,

a cosmic twirling tapestry,

the intersecting threads

of a brain, a mind, a heart,

greens, yellows, blues, and reds,

interwoven

to form a soul.

Perhaps I am odd

to look so deeply

forgetting the surface,

driven to discover

luminous masterpieces

within,

shimmering strands

twisting in tangled harmony.

Pigments of the outer sphere

fade in comparison

to incandescent collages beneath.

No matter one's pinned portrait,

concealed, uncovered colors

are far more vivid

and varied,

refusing to match

external exhibitions--

clothes, shoes, makeup,

hair, skin, eyes.

Uncovering the kaleidoscope

of a soul,

starts with studying

the dance of organic expression--

arms, hands, face,

eyes, fingers, mouth--

attuning

to the unequaled cadence

of a voice's unmatched music,

secretly searching out

the extra-dimensional dreamscape

just behind the iris.

These are strings intermingling,

weaving dynamic depictions,

beaming and breathing,

of who we are inside,

a melodic mosaic

much more moving

than stark works of art

frozen,

lifeless,

created to be seen,

yet powerless to portray

or penetrate

our purest, profound selves:

mortal galaxies

masked in skin.