01-19-2013, 05:49 AM
A Midwinternight's dream
dedicated to arbil
Zubānā,* Gliese 581g : Life?
22 ^12 light years short scale** from you
there maybe around this red dwarf
some light of fading carmine shining upon you
if you wasted some life dwelling on
Zarmina, moon 6
I. Tubular Bells
Audience polychromochronous like on a Brueghel painting
listen stoned – eared
to:
Space makes noises.
They sound like a question,
no one can answer,
too fascinated by what
they don’t comprehend.
Messaging you on a light note
because no one can die while a smile.
Also just because of distraction.
My heart, metaphysical me
of depth unknown for the better,
dreams itself away
into a sphere of would-bes
and rather-nots
in a vain, desperate attempt
to overcome fear of
losing what it never possessed
anyway.
For whom tubular bells toll,
half-aware of the post Euclidian
geometry of a love
trespassing the line
somebody had to draw
to keep rebellious hearts without,
for those who still speculate boldly
about as of yet uncovered hopes,
that once were almost as real,
as if they were,
for us the living,
blind strangers in a world blind,
I libate liquid promises untenable
and I weave
an ultimately flexible
web of words,
sugarcandiedly recursive
to life.
And still I am reweaving meanings
into sounds like silk spun from Chinese mulberry
rewoven by Syrian merchants for Roman delights.
—————–
* http://www.buzzle.com/articles/constella...e-sky.html
** long scale would be 22 to th power of 18.
dedicated to arbil
Zubānā,* Gliese 581g : Life?
22 ^12 light years short scale** from you
there maybe around this red dwarf
some light of fading carmine shining upon you
if you wasted some life dwelling on
Zarmina, moon 6
I. Tubular Bells
Audience polychromochronous like on a Brueghel painting
listen stoned – eared
to:
Space makes noises.
They sound like a question,
no one can answer,
too fascinated by what
they don’t comprehend.
Messaging you on a light note
because no one can die while a smile.
Also just because of distraction.
My heart, metaphysical me
of depth unknown for the better,
dreams itself away
into a sphere of would-bes
and rather-nots
in a vain, desperate attempt
to overcome fear of
losing what it never possessed
anyway.
For whom tubular bells toll,
half-aware of the post Euclidian
geometry of a love
trespassing the line
somebody had to draw
to keep rebellious hearts without,
for those who still speculate boldly
about as of yet uncovered hopes,
that once were almost as real,
as if they were,
for us the living,
blind strangers in a world blind,
I libate liquid promises untenable
and I weave
an ultimately flexible
web of words,
sugarcandiedly recursive
to life.
And still I am reweaving meanings
into sounds like silk spun from Chinese mulberry
rewoven by Syrian merchants for Roman delights.
—————–
* http://www.buzzle.com/articles/constella...e-sky.html
** long scale would be 22 to th power of 18.