Letting all go, the realization materializes.
Words fall into pieces. Watching lone stars fade through layers.
We have the world to see. Distraction is contained like diamond clusters, floating as dust on water.
What was the point, begun too long ago to glance upon with simple eyes?
Do we have the sun? Or is it gathered by tainted patterns, shredding as the clock pendulum swings across time?
We have the ocean gliding, forward into cavities hollowed by imploding minds. All else dissipates, a warble of faint breath on glossy silk.
I have the imperfect pearl. Roundly oblique, its ellipse stumbles less drunkenly than before we began this pretty dance, with dainty steps and wind-wept cloth forming the shape of air.
Melted colours, the blue snow pink of a wintered sunrise, like weathered moons seem conscious for a moment, yet fall again into silent pools.
We have the instant on an end of breath and before the drawing in of new words. This day is come, and we are glad for it. An ending. A new Turn.
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