We, transpiring

original poetry

The spires and rudiments that build themselves
From a mind into a mind self-cognizing.

The chance flicker during daydream
That sets bodies as trophies on a mantelpiece.

Eye into an eye, drowning in repetitive impulse
That speaks to itself, writing variations on a theme.

Soul out of soul that searches itself
In curvaceous galaxies.

Mouth that eats not,
Hands peeling back to bone.

Skin under skin that shields treasure,
Hidden in wait in a grave of its own fashioning.

Waves of moving sand flung
In a toss that lasts one billion crore years

Each particle a tiny heart:

Each heart, a tiny world.

The filaments of life that spiral themselves
Like singing nebula through the aetheric ocean.

Notes

One of the great beauties of poetry is its ability to utilize all of the recognized grammatical and structural conventions of the formal written language, plus a potentially infinite amount of novel combinations which would be considered "incorrect" in prose. A common poetic practice is using sentence fragments, as seen in this poem. Many of the couplets are only subjects without predicate. Yet there is still movement, action—substance becoming self-aware.

I am something
happening to the Universe.
My body: a verb.

Beyond the fluctuating haze and clarity of consciousness that parade through our lives in endless procession, may we recall that we are identical with all that we perceive. That there is no getting out of any of this, without going into it with great aplomb. And that is something of a task never finished.