Within thin shells of identity
we long for distant echoes
from tightly wrapped infinities
surrounded by curved mirrors of perception
reflecting the essence of vision
endlessly greeting itself
in a babble of eternity.

Turning with no direction
we see only contradiction
adding to itself
that which is of itself:

The reflection travels on 
an unmeasured ether
in a deep devoid of measure;

Assigning visions to a darkness rejected
we see opposites abound,
and yearn for the light
of a day that knows no night.

Christ nailed to a cross,
smiles at his situation,
hopes no one misunderstands:
He has other places to go.