Between cotton walls of grey
caravans trail and trod along
a flat earth nailed to paper skies,marked with kurgans of giants,
mantled by glitters of cold,
decelerating just a bit
to usher in an age of questions.
Within sublime frequencies,
the movement never ceases
and shaking teeth keep grinding
with consummate dendrites
for the invisible door,
sat one step beyond
the mating point of sea and sun.
Striving to net parhelions,
our roots are touching rock,
with every dawn and every war,
yet we'll hold fast, like blades of grass,
each crashing wave,
each footprint laid
in swiftest sands the wind won't name.
