Reality is fragile and unravels
in loose strands
of human understanding,
in strings of theory.
All we can do is ask why…
Pulling at pieces of skin
are the pins
that fix us to a flat black plate
next to the effects
of the butterfly.
We are bending and blending
and bleeding.
Speed is no longer needed
at the end.
The argument has never been settled
the tensions never cease.
So tempting to believe
just what we see,
when the truth has never been so easy.
Even bereft of emotion
sin stains, still colors my perception:
just a pigment of my imagination.
A creative chaos is calling:
a figment of fiction
all velocity and no veracity
just fragments and friction…
jbh
8.22.2012
