blisters in the sky
Giving us our radiance
And each planet in ellipse
Where the matter gravitates
As a vacuum sucks us in
Its infinite and programmed byte,
Down the black hole of our chances
Time's gold chariot galloping,
Reined by double-spiralled chains.

We are human and we know it-
That's the solace that the bird
Cannot muster as it
Under the weasels and whales of clouds.
What pattern comes- we can only guess it,
But at evening we go on,
For the sunrise praises all
When we raise our heads at dawn
And feel that
pristine density ...




Contribute to this thread if you'd like, or return to ergence.

Peter Nicholson's poem, "Official Secrets", can be seen on his site: