we are each
a small piece
of
the infinite.
a small,
stagnant piece
of unbridled turbulence
drifting around
the entropic sea
that is our universe.
how do you
describe
the infinite?
a writer
might have
twenty-thousand words
to try and make
sense of his mind.
a better writer
might have
forty-thousand words
to help her
make sense
of the storm.
you said kindred spirits.
a term i like;
one that felt like
old wood and
a distant
voice
calling out
from deep in the fog.
perhaps.
the cynic in me
calls it
human condition.
after all,
how do you
describe
the infinite?
YOU ARE READING
The Flowers, They are so Damned Beautiful
Poetrythe heavy rains come, but they will leave one day soon. and in the soil flowers bloom.
