phobic sky
orphic sea
malleable beings
exposed to the atmosphere
can we finally be surfacing?

aliferous dreamscape
living, breathing
particles and waves
sediments that the glacial ice
has carved off the earth
to build their erosion timeline

a memory of us together
collecting stones
touching hands
filigree and shadow metanoia
in the sanctuary where we feel safe

can we finally be surfacing?

Deep into the midnight
below the gleaming star,
I stepped on the running wall — the creation of Nirvana,
lights.

Heaven's an enigma
a forged between the steely and the curve
the star's collision and the minor parts
have the iciest heart — a grain of Truth.

Prophesy the future,
shuffle the sheets
and let them look at
your eyes — does it carry the dullest truth?
Or a blundered ignorance?

Does the dawn of the newborns
form the hallowed mysteries
of heaven's plea?
Into the Unborn
where the sky holds a mere certainty.

You climb long — to match the moon's faint
and the beaming sunlight;
where the galaxy
was just as narrow
as the strange fragments
of what we see?

Then if beneath us was the roaring storm,
will it expose the unborn?
Will the dream catch us
when we fall asleep?

Into the future.