We are but
A momentary merging of wavelengths into mass
Improbablistic collections of circumstance
Overlaid by incomprehension
Crushed within the lesser of many dimensions
No wonder we feel existential,
Denied of potential to
Another blank page
But this one is different
A past full of rage
A future indifferent
Released from the cage
Into sunlight, blinking
Turning a page
No more poison drinking
Historic toxicity
Of
Always places, never faces
Although the words align
Dreams of journeys, of passengers
But the trip begets the theme:
People - messengers, subordinated
Familiar yet understated.
And so it seems, the spaces hold:
The Shape Of Things
The shape of things isn't always
What it seems, on the surface
A thin veneer, obscuring
That what appears as form
Is but normalised belief
A superfice
Morning breaks,
The dewy landscape damp
Woodland floor nondescript
Against the dank debris
Of last year’s beech leaves
Strewn across now-muddied ground
Sun takes its first steps
Peering o’er the hills