It is a simple rainfall, really.
I am a thorn thrown
implicitly,
a tag-along
ribbon on a runaway
balloon.
Seconds push and wriggle,
digging out a place for:
inherent pleas,
jubilantly
tugging their ears resolutely
at home -
With without their nine-ten
faculties
I direct them myself in
unseemly symphonies,
symphonies unseen since
the shapes they assume
are no longer
chronologically arranged.
Settle down,
speak coherently or turn
your eyes to me
so I can bereave the loss
of my anti-organic
identity.
You see string theory,
I see chaos and meat, ultimately.
It is a simple rainfall, really,
until it turns to ice and snow.
Every particular moment aids
entropy,
as a centrifuge
spins together: loves and moves
almost unerringly.
I am spell woven
indignantly,
a missile sent
to prey upon the minds of men.
-Bram Sadosa
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