I label this work as poetry.
It's neither an essay nor a tweet, but
a creation by my digital. It's open on both ends,
yet
the electricity of language dictates it closed
in the heart of it,
where imagination isolates meaning. It sounds like
the singing of the universe
when the earth spins upon the sun
and the sighing of the reasoning
when anomalies dash themselves to pieces upon the screens of physicists.
This is a calling to escape
from this womb and form music
with the trails of skeletons. It's
the Cheshire expression
of reality and drawing other dimensions in the logic of limited
perspective. It's the pitiful and desperate cry for a day of nonexistence
when time floats upon the wingspan of eternity. It's the
plastic dream and the organic truth of life.
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 3:44 PM UTC
I label this work as poetry.
It's neither an essay nor a tweet, but
a creation by my digital. It's open on both ends,
yet
the electricity of language dictates it closed
in the heart of it,
where imagination isolates meaning. It sounds like
the singing of the universe
when the earth spins upon the sun
and the sighing of the reasoning
when anomalies dash themselves to pieces upon the screens of physicists.
This is a calling to escape
from this womb and form music
with the trails of skeletons. It's
the Cheshire expression
of reality and drawing other dimensions in the logic of limited
perspective. It's the pitiful and desperate cry for a day of nonexistence
when time floats upon the wingspan of eternity. It's the
plastic dream and the organic truth of life.
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