The Graduation of Vowels

It’s the season of visions – where hours are taken
from sunlight and given to insight.
When countless objects crawl down from the sky,
out of holes or clouds, and seep into our souls or soil.
Mysteries arm themselves with assault rifles and dig
deeper into foxholes.
Fragments of the imagination are brought together
and forced into the same room where they’ll be glued
together to make collages of new ideas.
The enemy camouflaged itself as incense smoke and
caused our vision of the world to cease – lighting all
our shadows.
Brilliant.
Outside not a leaf moves – the wind is blowing.
The windows fog as specters crowd each other blowing
dead breath on the glass.
Who graduated Vowels, made them divine language?
The foundation shakes and sky-lights dance.
A sleeping giant snores and the pen is at rest.
What other hints traffic blood to the heart?
Lines of various arches glow from the corner of your eye.
Lets skip the part about the door.
Karma can come in the form of car accidents or yellow mucus.
The navigator has lost his way and the universe pulls over,
asks for directions.
(Feel free to fill in the rest.)