A Study of Proportions

I'm not sure if this is a poem or an exercise in imagery. (Or is that all some poetry really is? Whooo. Deep.)

1.
on the roof with vertigo in any direction
the capacious sky is limitless
and the wind is meant for your cool toes alone;
you and that roaring jet overhead
with your own empty, empty sky
the color of vastness filled only with wind and the occasional train.
cacophonic cry for your understanding,
your easing attent,
your eager spirit with its leaps and soars
surrounded by the emptiness of blank potential.
the hands extend without a thought
touching, making tangible the earth and its honest taste
taking the peripheral blanket of ethereality and drawing it
close, around your self
your burdened mind and your quiet heart
whirling, to try and take in the bigness of it all;
blurring, like a pastel easel under tissue paper.
in the person under your degree of brown
the passion is infinite
and the dreams are meant for your beauty alone.
you and that love you hold
with your own empty, empty sky
clamorous for your wordless understanding
your absorption,
your drowsiness in every direction.
with your eyes closed,
all you can see is the inside of your mind--
the color of vastness
the color of the sky

2.
when you fill your skin warm
the rhythm of your heartbeat is strong
and the colorful chaos around you of blank
faces and voiceless noise
parts,
the waves of salvation for
you. the sea that follows crashes
back together again over your drumming,
chimerical eddies that sough of sand and terra-cotta
and it's as if you were never there at all-
you (play count: 2157) have been erased from subjective truth
which is blindingly existential
and simletaneously liberating; you
are there for you,
you are your own beat
throb through the African heat of lights in every color
and dark in every color, too.
the waves part
so you can reach the quieter beach where chaos
is a just hum that lulls you to sleep
and you can light your signal fire
beat your drum
and sit on the wet sand crumbling
into your perfect mold; you sit
waiting
for a distant drumbeat in response.

3.
out the window the city of culture looks like fairy lights,
secrets crystallized in icy sapphires
dewdrops on the dandelions hidden in the fields on a grey morning
the effulgence of a couple of spotlights
and one or two houses across the street
that and mountains of expectations blown to pieces with dynamite
carefully dusted like the remnants of powdered sugar donuts
while they're still soft and fluffy like clouds. out the window
the clouds are gently gray like Grecian rain
the people walk in colors unassuming and draw
you down to a personal level; you are
small, small like glasses and freckles and moments you create yourself
glasses (half full- we are optimists, not engineers)
making the fairy lights appear at night amongst the coolness
the blankets always warm and cozy in the coldness except when
you lack the fire to heat them up yourself. outside
the window the world is cold and the small are lonely
curled up in corners and silently sleeping off their insomnia. small enough
to fit inside another heart and hibernate there like a baby
bear in its first winter snow; but a human cannot be afraid to go
into the wildness of chaos and change
and only on Tuesdays. it takes two days
to run around the word in your mind, it has been calculated
it's a record of exhaustion from looking outside the window
small as minituae and the minute hand
outside the window the world moves around
small enough
to notice the important things