Another way to fire those flares off from the cannons
Of your contemplative eyes would be a confused stream
Of the steady, the something that will come out from
Extreme angles asking me to look out: Through the glass
Sculpted in light in the drifting away of the moment--
Even with the mere act of keeping the important of our lives
Drift faster than the insignificant ones.
Can we not see where our visions fail?
Yet I’d rather be a window somebody would look out at.
Something in the chaotic state projecting enough light
To show the form that must emerge that will otherwise
Remain void, without pattern into these darknesses.