This is the harp of the world,
with a song that died before stars
dimmed, vibrating its tiny filaments,
choices filtered through harmony.
There is no possibility
that does not collapse,
as cancer consumes you
like a thousand hungry worms.
We too burrow
to places thought firm. The Earth
remains hollow,
an apple without core,
our minds scooped clean.
The cycle repeats:
infinity to infinity
world without end,
as the theologians say--
like the graying sky,
light suffused with darkness,
shadows on a bright mirror.
~~~
Edit: Made some slight edits from Leanne's comments
From Leanne's surrealist exercise here: Thread
with a song that died before stars
dimmed, vibrating its tiny filaments,
choices filtered through harmony.
There is no possibility
that does not collapse,
as cancer consumes you
like a thousand hungry worms.
We too burrow
to places thought firm. The Earth
remains hollow,
an apple without core,
our minds scooped clean.
The cycle repeats:
infinity to infinity
world without end,
as the theologians say--
like the graying sky,
light suffused with darkness,
shadows on a bright mirror.
~~~
Edit: Made some slight edits from Leanne's comments
From Leanne's surrealist exercise here: Thread
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson