Science Fiction
Now, I can't describe it. Not one person could do it justice.
Even in photo, the hue's corrupted. And any crude adjustment
in post production, well, that's abuse. A ghoulish subject not worth discussion. With what brush could you touch it up with?
This is...a post cubist structure
with a most loose construction. More a feeling than sight. Penumbra sunset
at close. Such it was to behold. By the Life Cosmic, I was awestruck as you.
Jackson Pollock in oxygen blue. In a vacuum the comets rocket into
another to the sound of a sonnet, sonically mute. As millenia leapt
in a minute, a breath, I fought back tears and tasted the nectar of sweat
and felt such a depth to regret. Jealous of each moment passing to next,
that I was was wasting time even collecting myself.
See, I've felt their concrete. All their mundanity drains,
bone on bone. To the point that inanity claims are my welcome reprieve
to a repetitive streak set to a clock to their sedative sleep.
I'd rather these never could be's,
in the lapping ocean of firsthand moonlight, to their more "sensible things."
This is not...this is not what separates me,
or elevates. These ideas aren't mine; they call it a trick.
I just speak for everyone who's not agnostic to it
Then, it's just beauty hung in a void. My scene for recital,
complete with applause; that silent, thunderous noise.
I'm knee deep in revival, from what I've seen from the Belt
I saw my Venus de Milo in Venus itself
firsthand. Trying to collect myself.