Re:0

Behind the movements of cadence and the whirling of misted blueshine,
the White Light sleeps,
born into this vegetation at the pulps and fibre pressed
of conifer.
Reality wills to double back,
unvexes its embroidered mania ante bellum
and falls off into nova and fat seats of nebula flakes at Pillars of Creation, cradles of the fancy
returning after how many entropic warps of consciousness
to this same clear page
without consequence or higher purpose than to broil
and over into prismic subjectivity,
entertaining longer waves of the same substance,
quick returned to empty and whole.
 
Silence.
Time repeats again at the beginning,
that which is free,
against swallowing sand and the volatility of circus clowns
from the World's Greatest Show
in adult theatre.
 
Born again. Born again. Where the strokes are lifted with damp tapestry
and short-lived to a new first stanza.
Kalpas rip in the scrap of space-time,
passiflora mute to the atoms.
Hubble leaves esoteric the perennial boundless book of blank line
with no elephant to run the more human causality, the prism cracked in the third dimension and the haploids stalled along there and the fourth's,
as if Plethora was the blinding base of untreated plaster to this snowed out stigma crus
and always beneath the pollen, my ornamental imagery.