They come to me imperfect,

fractured visions of gold

and silver. A road leading

to emerald; this world

became fantasy long ago.

Pilfered by bandits

in three-piece suits,

devoid of reason,

keeping score

for fun, killing

without notice, consuming

the Earth to feed a

tyrant’s appetence.

They stand

on this rock, hurdling

through the cosmos

thirty kilometres

a second, glancing

through a keyhole

at a portrait

so exquisite

we wouldn’t have the words

if we saw it whole.


an all-encompassing understanding

of how something

comes from nothing; an


like alchemy

or fate.

Gold into emerald

emerald to plastic.

Maybe magic

does exist.

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