Hollow hearts sculpt a similar fate
To the empty cosmos in which they relate.
The far-sighted skeptic who sees empty air
Is alone, a vacant lens and a murmuring prayer.
Curmudgeonly neighbors in the microcosm.
Taking trillions of hanging in the surrounding dust,
And all of the
Birthday Cake Sex
Market Construction, Pocket-Wage Slavery,
All of the untold infinities of voices hoping to be heard,
Slice-of-the-pie joy that grows no thinner after being shared.
Pain pleading for sympathy,
And a handful of those who are able to feel them.
Like a draw-it-yourself circuit board connecting every particle together.
Hydrogen, Nitrogen, Oxygen, Carbon, and listless others periodically rustling in perpetual motion.
The breeze in your face is a revolution, an exodus
The draught in the corner, a whisper of things to come
The drops of rain on my shoulder in the bamboo forest seize my attention,
We could say these things are random, and dismiss deliberate infinities.
We could say all this space is empty to sight, and doom ourselves to sight
Neither near nor far.
We could see the world for empty pressure,
Or imagine the kaleidoscope particle shower we bathe ourselves in, every moment.
There is a moment when we stop flapping our arms in air we’re unable to grasp,
And the sweet-spot net we cast begins to yield Tiny Fruit.