I weave words within
an ephemeral
tapestry. a seamstress,
or a scribe of sorts.
either way you hear it;
the song remains
the same.
I understand and I do
not: a simultaneous
quantum superposition
(or superstition) for
an unutterable blazon of
infinity, encapsulated
within a granule of sand amidst
the eye of a great tempest.
I cannot claim a prophet.
no. I do not merit
such bravado.
no testament to my
works and days,
nor presumptuous air
of religiosity.
my fingers sketch out a
tempo through the
Β Β Β Β Β Β cΒ Β
Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β u
Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β rΒ Β
Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β vΒ Β
Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β eΒ Β
Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β sΒ Β
of letters,
a form which
sings and dances
for those who cannot.
(unfinished)
tuesday, january 8th, 2019
Β© kalica calliope