A shadow's skeleton
lay awash on the cosmic shore,
now a shallow, empty pool
depressed upon a flat skin of sand:
A sailor's ghost unburdens the smooth surface,
dissipating in the chorus of a billion stars...

The shadow was born
from a clean disc of perception
eclipsing the body of a contradiction,
flushing from memory's structure
methods and motives
lost in the act of creation,
lost in the orgasmic rush
from Equilibrium's merciless silence.

The shadow awakens,
a victim of circumstance surrounded
by the roaring of the rotating galactic carousel,
disturbed by the sound of Complexity's whisper
penetrating the simple, gigantic noise
with constant hints random
of a signal not heard,
of a message beyond
the thin veils of comprehension.

The shadow's search began
before the resolution of any sense,
a trajectory logical and straight,
undistracted by objective views,
before the destination of all substance
assumed the direction
of Time's inevitable choice.

So the shadow rises from the profile of history
constructing the face of understanding
upon the screen of a waiting spectrum
supporting sprawling nebulae
with silhouettes of measurement
and illusions of depth.

So the shadow falls
eternally through infinite space,
deflected by chance meetings
with the power of it's own passage,
a mindless yet consistent flow;
forming itself into a funnel of forces,
a spinning lens in the dumb dark,
now a shallow, empty pool
depressed upon a flat skin of sand.