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.