Inner and outer
manifestations (of
rage and tender touch,
of an ego pulled
over the head
inside-out,
of space and the
absence of matter,
of ions forgetting charges,
of mass not knowing
its how and why,

leaving cracks in
the surface of
what once was,
what is,
what could be,
what could have been
before cosmic collision
exiled its possibilities
into the netherworld
of parallel options,)

become the
stuff of dreams.
The fabric of poetry.
The liquid sunrise
calling us back
to a life we
don’t understand
while painting
its ambiguous canvas
with the language
of purpose.

Inner and outer
manifestations (of
rage and tender touch,
of an ego pulled
over the head
inside-out,
of space and the
absence of matter,
of ions forgetting charges,
of mass not knowing
its how and why,

leaving cracks in
the surface of
what once was,
what is,
what could be,
what could have been
before cosmic collision
exiled its possibilities
into the netherworld
of parallel options,)

become the
stuff of dreams.
The fabric of poetry.
The liquid sunrise
calling us back
to a life we
don’t understand
while painting
its ambiguous canvas
with the language
of purpose.