How could the mountains
forget
the ground beneath them
or the clouds deny
the sky
we bear this mark
this Galactic conception
and yet
we become fictional
a small etch
of understanding
nonexistent sketch
in the dredge pituitary
a one
dimensional edge
we watch like
a picture
show
existentialist
and it's fiery
seed
shooting it's
burning flames into
the black womb
soon to die
or birth a moon,
the candle is the soul
it is intent
that keeps it lit,
it is our lack of
immaculate
perception
that pulls it apart
Roche's limit
yearning
to string pearls
around heavenly
bodies
as
charisma reaches
to embrace
a burning,
and I see fire.