Praha Matka Mest

A matriarch, the mother city holds
you at the bottom of her cochlear
towers. Glassy and glazed with a color
spectrum that doesn’t exist outside of
her streets. This city is like your heart,
vitric and blooming. An expansion of
archaic to nascency;

Stare’ Mesto to Nove’ Mesto.

Everything changes as you touch it;
rolling fingers over large ancient
castles, vestments, weapons of the old
world. Leaving behind crystals of aurous
honeyed color as your footfalls over
Karluv Most. You create color in
places of grey; light in dark corners.
Like a helix, towers combine and
create images for your eyes to take
in; seeing things in a bacchanalian radiance.

Here, where imperial rulers sat,
insolent and kingly, you are skylarking
and bohemian. Your breath falls,
tendrillar on the face of the city.
And i can feel its heat from here, in
another world, inside my own spiraling
fortress; an Ecclesiarch,

waiting for you to come home.


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