The curtain gilded by hidden source
everything is wrestling in a futile battle for birth
it is underground miasma where my eyes
fall upon like castles of music;
barely touched
barely a cusp from the fountain of indifferent distribution
the memory of existing essentially empty of existence
colorless fraction of silence
floating in the stream that roams
through the anfractuosity of the event;

my toy car
mother eyes
love

o

the fuel of phenomena

distant but within sight
asunder
the constellation of the hunt

blue impermanent struggle
words as the indeterminate quarks of reason

my folded heart
         tucked
in the plenitude of the unknown.

Nihilistic Poetry Blog