In between

I am stuck in between
a world of dreams
and a world that does not exist.
Time is moving so fast
I lost myself in the glass
that shattered in a transit.

Transient blues carve away incandescent orange
in chopped blocks that sway around deranged
like the Times that falter to lethargy
when my heart beat stands in reverie
of tired times
that smelled sweet like Rosebud
and aired the Earth in two tones
like that of drowned stones
and atmosphere that distilled the Sun's blood,
of tired times
intrinsically the unkept notion that I am still alive
and only beneath a tick when the piano rolls
or we fan the brahmin's scroll
and it was all there for me to derive,
of tired times
when butterflies were chided for insanity
for an appreciation of the sublime
that is found in the way ivy climbs
that is somehow now a vanity.

This is the in between where I happen to be,
this is where the Time blinks in stasis,
this is why I cannot settle,
this is the space where I see,
where I think,
where I think I will always remain,
in between two worlds,
one of fantasy
and one of fallacies,
one of pleasure
and one of hustle.

I roam the Space in between
permanence and an instant,
lacquered sleep and unconscious momentum.

What do you think? Criticisms and praise welcome.

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