moving in an unending line.

Linear from our quickening,

to our death.


I don’t think

that every breath

is charted course,

laid out in advance

of our needs,

our yearning to be.

Our destiny,

no stronger than our will.


Paper thin,

the veil on which

is writ our part.

Tears become new paths,

and stains,



Mirror back to back,

the concourse of the stars

in any sky.

Two hearts beat together,


in the pools of ethereal space.

Two things the same,

but of different realities.


The possibility

of all things possible,

in every possible universe,

being aligned

for one second,

one instant,

one act,

one breath,

one thought…

… and then it’s gone.


Back to the break beat.

Back to the markless clamour

and the doubtless melee of battle.

The conflict,

the grind,

the war.


Deep in our being,

a part of us knows,

and remembers

it is part of all things,

all time.


A memory

of a memory,

of the universe.

Echoes of creation.





HG – 2020

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