A petition to the deity inside every crushed insect,
this fragile frozen clockwork – an entire nebula shrinking,
slapped vacant faces on a hierarchy of needles.
Unseeing eyes turned inward upon a thousand realities,
formless landscapes for each breath to inter.
Temporal shadows ascending,
waking the transitory dead,
alive to the edge of the abyss,
drinking from the mouth of the sun.
Eyes moving, choosing… the very place I’ll bury it,
a locked box – far away,
beyond the reach of telescope or typewriter,
no single star will suffice for saviour.
The jaws of the universe yawn and roar,
and worlds sing within.
© G.P. Fiddament 2023
Art Rupert Loydell
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