Under milk of moon
In the periphery of eye
At the dividing line between darkness and light
The ghosts, phantoms and angels reside
Singing mute harmonies of mountain rain
Melting hard cataracts of identity
Twisting thoughts into swirling spaghetti
Illuminating depth of mirror vision
Their fingers ripple through the black tar
Shaping waters of colour
And if you let them
They shall speak