Cosm

Time is my timelord,

accuracy is written in the stars,

each perfect in their allotment

of space.

No errancy here, no easing

of the rules, no escape.

No breaking free from

the organogram, the histogram,

the sociogram.

No failure of belief, no restructure,

no redirection or rethought.

And yet, and yet, I see it now,

a glint in the eye of the storm,

a remeasuring of fate,

a taking of the shackles to see

them blithely disintegrate,

a sense of silent revolution, of blind hate,

when, at the core of thought,

awareness is the entangling of

opposites, perception

creation from the partial and the

possible.