Poetry: Singularity

Buddha photo

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Inner Space

She shut her eyes to see
a universe within, stunned
at her own second coming
home.
Here, she was the artful creator;
here, she reigned
by her own decrees:
she imagined joy, and thus was joyous
as a newborn god, enthralled
by making herself
happen.

You, a Palimpsest

You author reality with metaphors

and verb to make a living

while the ghost writers circle

like carrion birds, waiting to rip

your soul from your flesh.

You, a palimpsest, have shed

covers, switched genres, crossed out

every adjective you used to be;

and I, your avid reader, await

your next page, enthralled

and close to tears, overlooking

your plotholes.

Imagination’s Wormholes

She shuffle-sways up and down
the train’s aisles, the lurch
a warp in space, a tug
on time. Waiting
for Mongolia, she leans
out a window, her thoughts streaming
loose from her skull, wind-swimming
behind her, each wish armed
before it tears away into air, into freedom, to change
the present, the past, and the future.
Spirit has wormholes too, she thinks,
getting down from the chair,
still imagining Mongolia and train-sway
in her own domestic kitchen.

You, a Fractal

You pull yourself in, deliberately,
abruptly peaceful in your fate: being
a minuscule point of space, a short line through time.
You call it progress but I resist,
caressing the dials of my perceptions 
to watch you bloom
in all directions, infinitely, like a fractal-soul,
which is, after all, just a point, a line,
multiplied forever. Or
in other words, your full potential.