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
Melancholia
Poetrypoetry takes us to so many places, and we take poetry to so many places. here are poems about places, and sometimes the people found in them.
