Higgs Bosom
by hayley ingram Here the trees speak when you whisper back. Sapphire compasses beat and breathe salty dreams that hide among nascent sea shells of quartz. I am shipwrecked blinking stale carbon. Moving with the momentum of some foreign moon and rubiate sun. Life is constant baptism sweeping dusty relics, now so murderously awake. The moon sighed, “I’d rather be blind than deaf,” while I watched the world shimmer in the Shaki sway behind my eyes and suddenly I knew what it was like-to hear and be here. Sometimes being awake is an arduous ocean one that breaks on the epoch of my finite future. The clock wears a black bow tie waving his fingers like a pendulum swinging, ticking with the snores of an old tree branching through the space of an old, tired universe. All of these colliding galaxies gather as grain. WE are stars waiting to explode before God or ourselves Dying Daily swimming through lakes of cerulean phosphene drunk and full brimming with e x I s t e n c e. minuscule compared to the infinite. I must keep reminding myself that I am always returning. With a taste of perish, but full of magic shitting spectre spirits of ourselves. Never forget that we are only organisms. Shaping bones. Growing fingernails. Circulating blood beasts. WE are Gods that have neglected to recall all of those lifetimes spent asking why.
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