Naught Your Soul (If/) Then What Satiates In'this...
Overfill (and fill again) your cups with formulae and data
Tis pure, tis true (and you may believe naught else forms itself thus)
Measure and again and you will be vouchsafed and whole
We've succeeded upon it, refined it, cast our computational machines at it
And we are assured, over and again
By ignoble fact and method
"Truth!" is cried
and inside
what echoes
now
In this formidable, where may a heart allay itself
Passion's play, human wonder, affection's delight
The warmth never found in the disassembling of the universe
Pull apart at its tapestry, and we face the cold
reality of space - unfeeling, impassive, distanced
Assurance or daunting persuade
The immenity is not meant for
us.
Fires cast down upon us from the very seat of Heaven
Assure yourselves in time, as noble creatures are we
that set a pace by the ticking of the clock
from our start until our unknowning end
assure yourselves in need of one another and cast
ourselves for the better face, the caring hands
the loving graces we impart above and here
amongst ourselves
[the beat back beat
of red and black
that when I close mine eyes
and mind entrenched
in this delight]
Let us love, and affect, and allow ourselves the humanity
in an edge that detracts and ciphers instead
let us be here, upon this stage
and not a screen or calculation to be had
breath upon breath
skin upon skin
the very air between us and nothing else
I'll shall bend this and cajole the language
to better match this heart
over time
and thought only of
you
...
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