words

the further down i go the clearer they become,
unbleached words drip slowly
from stalactites hanging deep within the weird neural complex,
in the dark where these thoughts condense acidic
and wear away what host axions exist or don’t exist.

further down, deeper in where they cannot be retrieved,
where nothing that goes may ever return from,
the infinity of uncertain shapes colliding
in the firmament that rages in temporal waves,
surges of that which god has put there.

the powder rushes out and halos,
a ring doomed to serve the gravity of the father,
tiny elements
of the thing which gave them the engine of their purpose
left to observe forever the etchings of before.

the least of matter stands footed in the larger chaos without,
what celestial bodies present in the iris geometric,
some ocular stroma eons away in the cold dark of everything,
filamentary highways out there waiting.

-S.C. Martinez