thousands of …

 

thousands of points of light converging, diverging

until the beat progresses to non-beat

and then beat again

and it beats be bloody

 

until I can reach forward into the light

not grasping,

{more like fingerpainting}

 

all over the blue- and grey- and sometimes aquamarine-

atmos

 

sometimes I taste it 

{when I can swallow the metallic sheen away}

and the perpetuating perpetration of a paltry panic

 

seizes my deep

and i laugh, 

knowin’ the salty sundry couldn’t be more than

 

everything i never dreamed

.

.

.

“it’s wishful thinking

for the whole human race

(or whoever)”

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