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“My minds eye, an oasis where the final petal is caught in the wildfires, foregrounding my inner complexities, a make-up of my day-to-day state of mind twisting and twirling, causing a downpour of sentiments; coiled winds of thought – a spiraling attempt at illuminating my mind. A poem can be a dream, whirling around an idea or, entirely avoiding it – my poems behave like dreams where patterns of thought drift through watery eyes, drawing on the unconscious in hazel cindered minds eye.” — Riley Catherine Magill
My minds eye,
an oasis where the final petal is caught in the wildfires,
foregrounding my inner complexities,
a make-up of my day-to-day state of mind
twisting and twirling,
causing a downpour of sentiments;
coiled winds of thought –
a spiraling attempt at illuminating my mind.
A poem can be a dream,
whirling around an idea or,
entirely avoiding it –
my poems behave like dreams
where patterns of thought drift through watery eyes,
drawing on the unconscious
in hazel cindered minds eye.