“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Monday, September 11, 2017
Every thing
It used to be about Other Things
It was always about 'other things'.
The more you think about It,
the more It thinks about more.
Stare long enough at any thing
and you lose all light discrimination
inside those black-hole pupils.
It has been said things couldn't be worse-
something about change, smaller
but felt the same with more things
and blame.
It was cluttered with chatter,
static, white noise, white holes
and light bounces off rubber words.
If you blink now,
it will never change.
Time wiggles out of every thing.
Painting by Thomas Wijck (c. 17th century), Alchemist in his study with a woman making lace, uploaded by Chemical Heritage Foundation [Public domain or CC BY 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons.
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