The stars above the earth below the dynamic moving waves of black reflects the sky above.
Its movement like the movement of a drunken song with about as much social comment.
Completely clear despite pollution of the most unearthly kind and source, human light and vision.
Yet light it is, a prefect portrait of black upon a checkered, visionary, palette dispersed by the former.
Laying on my back on a silent platform the chill salt wind bites into your insulated shell.
The movement of the earth replaced by the churning of the heavens and the deeps
That portrait is perceived and given a great amount of depth perception to that forlorn viewer
Laying back on a sinking platform on a voyage with 97 strangers they have known all their life, and denied.
The distance is vast like a yo-yo at its climax on its plummeting journey from the abyss and then
Rebounding into the sky in the blink of eye a mystery fully visible to the masses around it.
Like a cosmic chasm reaching down with a great black maw stretching from bounded interval to
Bounded interval and then ignoring the boundaries and entering the uncomprehending confusion.
The Seven Sisters are stunning in their crowded anonymity, an arrow of light defies its static void.
Moving in its slow turning psychic cycles of profane importance to the fools below. Profound only in its
Immensity and the questions it raises in terms of size and density, time, space, truth and deception, the connecting
Of dots and that relevance to the universal truths that coat the subject and drag it down, down, until it flies.
In the silent lucidity of one who knows everything yet knows nothing. One who sees everything yet sees nothing.
One who has done everything yet down nothing. One who cares about everything yet cares about nothing.
And that too is on the rebound, your thoughts taking a rolling dive and then being shot back up into the sky to try and Identify,
memories lost to a time before, a life simplified by complexity of its alter ego...the world, the heavens, the Unknown.
Dawn is nowhere close, yet the portrait of the lag of the mind still blurs and is never clearly portrayed
....mere pricks not Crystal in their intensity or brilliant in their appearance. They are dark. Even viewed from the presence of
Longer phrases and this never ending fire, of tirade and endless peace, present at the crossroads of the liquid and solid.
Your creative license is a lie, revoked when it burns right down to it, and the ashes prove it.
But that too is a lie as the evening turns to blackest night and the fire of ones thoughts is extinguished,
By the sheer rolling monotony of it all, the blissful rocking of it all, the sickening churning of it all, and not
Suspecting a thing. Oblivious to its hidden innuendoes, impervious to the tangible. Fortified in ones desire just to enjoy Something, Anything, Anything at all.