an illustrated poetic essay 

O curvature, born of straight lines, how can you play such subtle games with my eyes?


For the deception both ascends and descends, upon the path of illusion.


Whilst colour is merely the plaything of the lego constructor.

An architect’s toy box, exposed.


Stepping through the shades of shadow, in light, and dark


Do look up.

The sharp overhang creates a tension of dynamic that fractures the view of alignment, twisting and distorted.


Never ignore resonance, the language needs your experience to exist.


Upon reflection, the lifeblood of parallel communication exists between dimensions.


Though the clinician demands antiseptic sterility.


The theatre of the hourglass welcomes your visit.


As does the nightmare of dystopia.


Slide aside your inhibitions of experience, for the door that awaits you will reveal a destiny.


For those sinister apparitions of the Star Wars variety might disturb our tranquil mind.


Within the fractured light of sunset, the prism of soft colour reflects the mirror of perspective.


Through the looking glass of time, where history breathes through fenestration.


Following the patterns of Spiderman’s staggered clamber, leaving the trace offset by reflection.


Interference patterns of a harsh dynamic that can soothe no soul.


Whilst leaving by the back door, security might be tight, though the light will always penetrate the unfulfilled spaces.


Cresting, surging energies of colour and materials will vitalise the arrival of your guests.


Whilst the dormant quietude of winter’s mantle shelters the sound of the valley.


Forever focused, forever complex, forever loud.


Origami moves to decide the partition, in anticipation of departure.


Tumbling blocks, those quilted stones of the hallways of the aspirational.


Striking upwards, unafraid of any confrontation, however sharp, to prick your conscience.


Along a psychedelic flow pattern to reach the gateway of reality’s intersections.


To unlock the no longer banal, canal towpath.


And witness the Louvre, whose Mona Lisa smile is forever held within the unfathomable geometries of the pyramids.


The stillness of beckoning.


Multiplied in the bourgeois fantasies of billionaire asceticism of the 10th factorial.


Of an over arching desire to leave the patternings of the past, and journey inwards once again, bridging transgressions and failures.


Until we reach a comfort, zoned and familiar to our desires.


Until a dated brutality of an Art Deco frequency echoes the halcyon past in concrete ripples of historical precedence.


Even the savage cubist senses the discomfort of the reclining structure, whose ambivalent angles portray a sequence of shadowed intentions.


Inspired of Seville, the floating curtain of geometry settles into a pattern of familiarity, whose sweet curvature speaks of night’s due caress. 


Hollowed and light, carrying no weight other than to bear your footprint. 


The options of return constantly remind the walker which pathway to take.


Under the betrayal of design overload.


Washing, bleaching the cosmetic geometry to satisfy a Cotswold heart.


Sporting an abundance of confidence through falsifying the facade of space.


But even so, I am tempted to enjoy the harsh vacuity of direct linearity.


Game Over.

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