The Glue That Holds Us To the Canvas
Like sparks trailing
from a million, billion fireflies,
a single thought limns a trillion suns.
From the first small bonfire
flickering across four million years,
whose light imprints itself
upon the canvas backdrop
of a feckless, barely cohesive Infinity,
the matter of man, no more than
the past, transmogrifies the future --
denies the import of "real" or "black"
or any other type of matter.
Yet existing, it defines the local locus
of now and when ... and how and then.
The freezing cold of space
burns like energy backfiring on itself.
Somewhere, celestial lightshows
flare across parsecs of near emptiness.
Liquid oxygen fuels
the laboring lungs of multitudes,
singing out the music of the spheres,
maestros of a trillion symphonies,
platelets in the lifeblood of the Universe.
Like a Coriolis wave that imprints itself
upon a formless sandstorm,
a thought burns itself
into the very fabric of Eternity,
opens like a budding flower,
and initiates its own realities.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ibPT24qMTw
Author notes
Je suis un Capricorn.
]
This is my Desiderata.
Written December 2nd, 2005
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