Running After

So we peruse through passages,
Those stubborn asymptotes that
Snail towards eternity.
And then we plot each path,
As a perfect perforation
On paper to admire
A pattern that we knit through.
Neat. Precise, plagiarizing
The mechanics of the cosmos.
How dare we unreel darkness
Only to see better.

But then, how often is perfection
Willing to have itself imitated.
How often does the mirror speak truly
To that which stares back?
It merely frames what can be
Reached.

So then shall we splinter illusion
To find its own shadow across dark, deep skies.

A bottle full of ink, a parchment pale;
Each slivered phrase is a firework
Blotting my eternity, confusing me
To believe that certainty is only
A galaxy away.

22 July, 2007