tiny sounds
gushing fast
in vast lumens
hearing lights up
a dance of
an escaped fog
to a soul
so close to counter
so close to unknown

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swarms bloat
buckets of unliving
pour through
nothing vibrates
or is lost
maybe everything real
escapes
or maybe nothing really exists in it
or maybe there is nothing clear
and matter is only its quotient
the mass of
what life really gets lost in
as hoping over a stick flatlines
love sticks to its looming loss
the existing
flossed cocoon
dampend
later identified as water in
my subconscious
tandem blessings suffer
some curiosity billows
and one day submits
and again rises
when its shallow

depth

writing in swarms
buckets pour through
and nothing really lives
or maybe everything real
escapes
or maybe nothing is real
and matter is only a quotient
to the mass of
what is real is
as hoping on a stick
love sinks in looming loss
flossed in its cocoon
it burrows deep in sorrow
weeps within
and drowns
only to be rediscovered
by curiosity one day
and when its allowed
shallow feet