The fact is, the Earth is still. Stunned, in fact,
there is no wind, another than the big fan,
since your argument indicates nothing less
than the coming of another dark age
What can we ascertain of love?
A survival drive, a spark of a star
seeking a guarantee the light
will never die
What we don't know
is everything surrounding
the fractal of what we do
I cannot upload
fifty thousand years
of learning fire burns
and water cools
in a moment of you
closing your eyes
only to deny
the sun of Osiris
in the magical gauze
of the orb beyond the lid
You are quite insistent
but persistence is not proof,
only the tyranny of celestial skys
where the glint of light off a leaf,
relatively speaking
is more profound than Saturn
Hardly fits the pattern
of even the sly screen
we peer into
as our minds go
softer, glowing less,
in the shrunken universe
of the disembodied
voices of doubt
