#angle - Hello Poetry

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— not only skin deep but the beauty is on— deep-bone skeleton. The pixels on the upper layer stay clear, and perfect balance holds below, through every layer. A day fades from the rose, dimmed—even at soothing eve. Not quite. It walks in chiaroscuro, through shades of tangerine, slipping into the thick of night— never growing thin— until it catches the set sun hiding, eyeing the new moon’s skin. It stands, ready for bold conversation, as the stars emerge, whispering through the seven skies. Wide-eyed death— inevitable— rushes in on beauty’s stake. But how long did it last? Before the blink of an eye, the tree was back in bloom. In watching galaxies—top of mind— it grows again, quietly, on the sublunary Earth. Math of the matter couldn’t be closer, nor farther—yet it is, as surely as cumulative math, with countless truths under the skin, 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 the sweetest— a panache showcase that conquers height and endures 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, up high 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 ending at the end. A topological fold opens and rewraps. There is a tree: overhead and on the ground. Keep an open eye— it keeps up!

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Jun 5, 2025

Jun 5, 2025 at 8:38 PM UTC

shofi-ahmed

No End: A Tree on the Line

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— not only skin deep but the beauty is on— deep-bone skeleton. The pixels on the upper layer stay clear, and perfect balance holds below, through every layer. A day fades from the rose, dimmed—even at soothing eve. Not quite. It walks in chiaroscuro, through shades of tangerine, slipping into the thick of night— never growing thin— until it catches the set sun hiding, eyeing the new moon’s skin. It stands, ready for bold conversation, as the stars emerge, whispering through the seven skies. Wide-eyed death— inevitable— rushes in on beauty’s stake. But how long did it last? Before the blink of an eye, the tree was back in bloom. In watching galaxies—top of mind— it grows again, quietly, on the sublunary Earth. Math of the matter couldn’t be closer, nor farther—yet it is, as surely as cumulative math, with countless truths under the skin, 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 the sweetest— a panache showcase that conquers height and endures 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, up high 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 ending at the end. A topological fold opens and rewraps. There is a tree: overhead and on the ground. Keep an open eye— it keeps up!