bc08

i watch dumbfounded as tendrils of time sneak and bind,
my eyes restless like shutters inviting thieves in from the night,
the world is ectoplasmic connected by tiny strands,
and bands of golden light excite this transfer to the mind...

at its base this beautiful pattern is a loop of sound,
resounding and reverberating through corridors rewound
and strung through thankless moments as we wastefully count endless days,
an exercise in futility...

i never thought that this could make any sort of sense,
all those times we wished for it to just be over and done with,
the glaciers dance and glow and our tongues catch the snow,
below there is no trembling echo just an endless note.

try to catch the broken glass as it passes through my hand,
and it's reminded of the simpler times when it was merely sand
weaving plotting schemes and dreaming things into life then breathing meaning
and i shutter at the thought as i sweep it up to throw it out...

this phase is no illusion any more than the entirety,
complexity is just a state our minds can barely see,
observing the wings and things the stars all chime in reticence,
here since the beginning (whatever that's supposed to mean)...