a warm glow shifts softly
in space & rhythm.
i pull the curtain aside & sit in the back--
a handful of seats, but only one
gets worn, the others
fool the mind into believing
imagination defies physics
to drink from the creative cauldron,
that ever-boiling vessel
churning out new
patterns & threads,
weaving fresh fibers between
spirits & minds.
the holographic hardware,
whirring too fast for ears.

our mind is the web & we spiders
spin the silk,
carefully or sloppily,
connecting the strands to catch
not flies but images,
sparks, bulbs & flashes.
often small, but once caught
emerge as a garden of gems
whose faces refract & reflect
until nearly all gems become one.

what's required is
a bright enough light
with fluid agility,
to illuminate & reflect
the whole nebula through
one, clean face--
perhaps the original gem itself;
for what would our mind be
without that raw crystal
forged in the stars?