Synaesthesia

I taste the sky.
I smell eleven.
To me a photo feels like heaven.
The red is hot,
and waves are grey,
as music sculpts itself away.

The fronds that mark these letters sigh,
and flex in steely grassy curls.
The world is patterns, smoky swirls.
I feel their form,
and taste the sky.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.