Monday, September 4, 2017

Choral motes


Doomed to repeat,
Implies inherent circularity,
As if our orbit
Could interrupt
With just knowing the segments
Of hilarity,
Propulsion just doesn’t work that way.

In microcosmic scales
Up and down, within spins
All is held together
By this
Revolution

From cloth to cloud,
White was ideal as open, pure,
And alone
The maker makes more mess,
The observers became obsolete,
And cursed the eternal stream
Of colorists, art and first impressions

And one was moved
Spun around again,
Up and down
Came together
As if they must.


Drawing (lithograph) By Odilon Redon (France, Bordeaux, 1840-1916) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

No comments:

Post a Comment

And then...

  Change is like that strong smell of cut grass or chopped wood that stops you still. Patterns, a symbol can be an illegible sign,  at first...