“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Sunday, December 30, 2018
Intro-version
Things fall into place and we can safely say
gravity had a heavy hand,
although it is a weak force and spineless excuse
for why we stand up-
right
despite the pressure this places directly on
our crowns,
fashioned from sand and stone,
the weight resists the wait
reeling into terminal velocity
blurs and gives
in, collapses into itself,
and condensing, reducing what is necessary
by its lowest denomination
We still build and rebuild as if we knew it would
all work out this way,
and not that way we tried
to change the inevitable, like laws, universal
and blind,
like this dark energy displaced
with good will
things were determined
by the absence of things
accidentally
heavier than we could imagine.
Painting by Jules Charles Aviat (1844-1931) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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