A spiraled-swirl

When they come it all happens in fractions

of what we call time.

They used unknown radio-waves

to contact those who can feel them.

Children, at first. Or children inside.

They let us turn our eyes up to their realms

in secretly-weaved ways, apparently obvious:

gusts of wind, charming lightnings, hypnotic hums.

 

Not many of us can see what and how they are.

Commonly they are dressed with cloud-sewed clothes.

But they cannot hold this temporarily atmospherical form.

They call me just like stone-generated lake-circles.

And just like stones to the bottom they fall.

Leaving me into a spiraled-swirl

of gaseous face-shaped glove; pushing me onto

a swirling spiral of galactically-proportioned love.

 

 

Done