is distinct due to
the length between
our beginning
and the end of time.
It is said that all
the pieces of me
won't walk through
space at the same gait
of light, though
we may end up together
in a phase or two.
Some will be cloaked
in the barest star's
shine, others bursting
with plasma gone nova,
and withdrawn.
We travel with each
purpose thought
through self,
knowing not our others,
courses set when
entropy was birthed.
Yet we meet and met
again when points
are rubbed clear,
and simultaneity
affects theory
and the absolute.
Of Smoke and Mirrors.
Smoke, born of the flame,a sign of smoldering embers
composed of fragmentary dreams.
Or a wind-flown mist
of translucid rainbows
scooped up from languid shores
hiding reason and life's frailties,
adding a hint of wildness to any dish.
It's not a calculated obstruction.
It but wants those it has enveloped
to rummage for terra firma.
And you can have dialogue with it
if you only knew the flag's tattoo.
Now mirrors. . . .
Coat within to see
planar counterparts.
Curve them to see
convergent caves
or intersecting vexes.
Glaze without to see
parabolic light from stars
or the leftover crumbs of life.
Layer the lacquer atoms thick,
and the dark will see,
the light are blind.
Bend the colors
to annihilate or acquaint.
But the special ones,
oh, the special ones,
they grant Aranmula luck.
So the questions remain.
Can wild light refractions
ever interface
with scrambled motes?
Can confoundment
ever synthesize?
Charlotte Ozment always keeps pen and paper handy to jot down the odd thought or two. Her work has previously appeared in Aphelion, Café Aphra, Carcinogenic Poetry, Eternal Haunted Summer, Five2One, Full of Crow, Kleft Jaw, Poetry Repairs, Star*Line and Wilderness House Review.
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