That traitor, imagination

Imagination delimits me
For its broiling circle bursts
Something potentially infinite
(I know not what.)

The bubble of conception
Is a filmy avalanche I ride
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Into the cerulean yonder
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Past the glyphs of gold
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Where the air is thin,
Where air disappears
Into the singing void.

I hear absolute genius
In the resonant silence.

It's the osmosis of perfection:
Oasis, stability of shimmering harmonics
Shifting through ages decrepit with faded elation.

The quiet is exploding through consciousness;
We drown in the violence of its inaction.

We grow in the crystalline light
Emanating from distant spheres
When the sun extinguishes itself.

The full moon casts far its pale progeny,
Considers me its quartz orphan and
Sweeps me up into its cold hands.

I am finite; I sense my loss
In the frigidity of time.

In my ignorant dreams,
I make myself tangible
And betray the infinite.
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Written by
@d-pend
12/6/17

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Photography by