a prediction after losing time back:
once the gulf between bumpy skies and midnight blue oceans passes,
there is no further exposure to the BrightWind of Song-
as everylastthing carries on
without a whisper,
without protest
oblong eternities
will hop aboard
this perfect CloudOcean of anywhere,
wending through the flawless expanding stillness
and once there,
growers of knowledge
will visit the fruits and branches of some glory tree,
situated outside previous archaic visions
as the candles they carry
will freely melt the darkness away,
revealing another circus of onlookers,
affirming inventors of Platonic shadows
abandoned unconscious dreamers
left to ponder unreasonable decisions,
almost frozen
safely grounded
full rest, stop
and it is here, somewhere within this impasse,
this prediction amplifies,
momentous and anonymous,
beckoning those who have had enough of practical puzzles
to pack it all in
after toasting the oncoming vastness of new possibilities,
and at last unfurl into a state of
constant saturated flux
for this unfurling is the only humble choice remaining
before skins are swapped, and
positions change once again
without more straight ties
signifying up
or down