Mental Soup

I woke inside a cloud some time this morning in the hour of half past noon.
My eyes blinked back transparent drops of dew that I never thought I knew.
Those eyes held no trace of some days of some weeks of some times of some place.
My mind had not yet stirred or whirred and found only a few cans of soup in the sea.

I strained to spy a carrot bobbing in time, clutching its ledger of debts and regrets.
I leaned to hear a potato carrying a load, dropping fuming glass bottles that clinked.
I snorted to discern seasonings conversing, speaking in words of basil and thyme.
I found my own lost art freshly dripping, offering a salty silver plate.

My eyes catch fire on melting waxen works, I might have orchestrated for thee.
My ears grind sparks with a weeping joyful tune, I may have written for thee.
My nostrils bleed cerulean bile from a sweetling scent, you may have worn for me.
Our minds breathe for our cinnamon life, but only before half past noon.

My mind lies bare on its cinnamon raft in the setting sun.
Lavender rot holds to a breeze and I wonder why it runs.
The single song I hardly know flees when night has come.
A waxen statue in my hands burns when the day is done.

My hands bred moist lips and questioned what form our potatoes deserved.
My toenails flicked garish eyes and wondered why our statue was so alight.
My nostrils sprouted wire whiskers and pondered when the rotting had begun.
My eyes grew eyes and gazed at themselves and asked why I felt so compelled.

My lips stay sewn and won't speak of their longing to know you.
My heart pleads to fall into the mist and swim as a carrot.
My gut counsels me to sink as a bag of potatoes.
My knees and elbows squall at me to float as a stoic in chowder.

I only shout to all who dare hear, I am not the man before half past noon.