Mold spore of a self assembling abyss:
Why should intelligence and language
Be any different than Nature?
Someone knows the answer to this
In all the laws of practical philosophy
Someone unknown hurmit crab of man
Someone knows why their is a heartbeat
To time itself and resonance between reincarnation
And our churning galaxy dancing with infinity.
Mold spores at the air vent
Of a transport to Mars
Look like the Mandelbrot sets of
the coloring book you left on the my desk.
You must not like the way I ignore you when I write.
But when I look you are gone again.
The spots I see before my eyes now
Are fractals exploding over and over
They are like snow crystals under the magnifier
The are fireworks than never end
Time is the noose around the neck of impossible
Distance is the time it takes to die
Speed is like the knife that cuts the rope of infinity
I am the thief that loots the gems of escape.
You are the cook that brings each morning
Sweets to a condemned prisoner of your love.
Romantic ideas from what little I know of cosmology.
Your eyes capture the transcendental
The paradoxical the ethos and the mystery
The line of your torso is the expression
Of a spring wind kissing the thunderstorm's
Delicate rumble -- your fingers the first cool rain
On the minerally leaffy foilage I once called Music.
How do we come to assemble from the abyss?
Someone knows the answer.
Whisper it to me when your lips touch my kiss.
No comments:
Post a Comment