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.
Complete,
an all-encompassing understanding
of how something
comes from nothing; an
impossibility,
like alchemy
or fate.
Gold into emerald
emerald to plastic.
Maybe magic
does exist.
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