it's easy to remember
you in these pictures;
light's language of shadow
sculpting time
and
you are there
like a shell pounding out the sea,
laying back on the beach,
head sideways, your eyes closed,
knees buckled in the air
open to the Sun's
fingers of light reaching,
glistening there
I've not been the Sun
in your darkened places
since
the day you offered yourself
to the sky,
the day
I succumbed to the seas
endless waves
washing over me
1 comment:
I imagine that time sculpted is a picture, a moment captured in pixels of shadows cut into white, like words in black, fit in these forum boxes here writ, in binary, then ASCII, sculpted bit by bit 'til they reach your eye, then looked in, where the language of light begins its show 'n tell, as neuronal-fires suddenly flower into the intelligence of design, shadow-recognition, the gleaning-o-meaning, we call sublime -- and as a result of all these interpretations, this comes off as chaotic, familiar; which is the way of casting out our neural-net which gleams again from our eye:
from an ancient ache
rolling toward the edge of night,
so long ago, way back when,
toward the beginning of time
at first light
all things are connected --
path-dependent
on that old Promethean fire;
where sparks in embers glow
to gleam again inside our eye,
and fly, oh fly away they go ...
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