Born from the Black, He wormed through the World. He dove into Death, Vanishing back into the Black.
Epicurean Epitaph [Free Verse]
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ideas accelerate to the surface like air bubbles from whence they came, i cannot say they passed up from below the lit sea from the darkness maybe, like air bubbles, they follow a mostly straight path, but i cannot say for certain what happens below the light i catch only the vapor that drifts up out of the popping bubbles and it must be gathered quickly before it spreads on the wind, becoming lukewarm nothing... damn increasing entropy!

As in Hokusai’s Great Wave,
I watch waves roll over,
before a volcanic cone.
Though these waves are
small & close,
they are perfectly rounded.
And though the distant volcano
looms large over the shore waves,
it has perfect symmetry.
I feel the roundness
&
simultaneous devastating power
of both elements at once.
abandoned farmstead -- a blip in the flat-wide spaces of the industrial-agro-manufactured prairie the barn, dilapidated the vehicles & implements, rusted weeds growing from every crack tall, blonde grass - waving like ripe wheat - stands in both front & back yards something has died on the prairie something is returning to dust & weed something is lost