There are roses.
A sniff of that—
turns the trees into sharp thorns.
Sit still.
Secured. Guarded.
Then there is a Tree,
meticulously crafted,
big-footing from the deepest deep—
a deep-bone skeleton.
Math of the matter
couldn’t be closer,
nor farther—yet it is,
as surely as cumulative math,
with countless truths in store,
unfound until the equation fits.
It can appear with precision,
or stay hidden from sight—
under the sun, or the moon, alike.
Sharpest sharp cuts: linear.
Deepest deep, yet curves—
smoothest golden spirals.
The solid full-stop dot
in Ma spaces
springs sweetest, absolutely high—
the complete panache showcase
over enduring time.
A sniff of it stirs the water—
boundless,
no sea, no ocean, no river,
just flow,
forever.
It bumps into paradise above,
roots stretching,
never ceasing.
Deep down, it rocks the pearls,
melts the clouds,
rains soft on the glass—
which breaks
into pieces of a star.
Breaks open wide—yet no angle.
Deep down, it never fractures.
Every line, on every lane,
curves inward
to its digital bedrock:
non-linear, vibrating numbers.
Day in, day out—
no end at the end.
A topological fold
opens, rewraps.
There is a tree:
overhead and underground.
Keep an open eye.
