Sliver of PerfectionA Poem by Footprints al carbonThe fizzy reality of drifting.
In life,
every day, every step of the way, we are quietly collecting heaven, we are quietly collecting hell. Observations: measurements and perceptions the universe falls into form, an experience having been known. In a multiverse, a path may twist, and what was up now is down. The pull of gravity becomes repulsion; the light is dark and the dark is light. In this multiverse, small variations can have large consequences and convergence is as unpredictable as the mathematical expression of perfection. The form of the multiverse is held together by two very strong opposing fields. Exactly in between them, in an impossibly small sliver of space there is perfection that cannot be seen; although it is wide enough to contain the entirety of what is within it, but on the outside this sliver does not exist. On either side of the sliver of nothing there are bubbles - universe bubbles emerging out of the unseen perfection and carried outward under the influence of one of the fields. On one side of perfection there are bubbles of void inside and the other side contains void outside bubbles. Each emerging universe begins to grow in size and complexity in parallel and alike: in some instances caused by an observation on the void within side and other times from an observation on the within void side. Sometimes the broken pieces are brought together, and other times the whole is broken into pieces and scattered. As the bubbles drift they become more and more complete as the source of the field draws in what it most desires and repels what it already has; The cross-over points are only possible when the sliver of perfection becomes visible and exposed as it contains all, void, all can be known.
© 2017 Footprints al carbon |
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1 Review Added on February 16, 2017 Last Updated on February 16, 2017 Tags: dualism, ubuntu, multiverse AuthorFootprints al carbonPhoenix, AZAboutI'm a part time poet, usually during waking hours. An idea must be fed and put to bed in harmonic frequency as to the sun moving about the sky. Poetry is exhausting so burn clean my peoples. more..Writing
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