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