IMPOSSIBLE SEAMS
Those impossible seams make the
visible seem like an illusion projected
afar. Things up close keep moving away,
Five months the leaves lose green and
three months an ice age deems its own
near-permanent arrival. How does this
go that it can seem so?
-
Were I the master tactician with that
dwelling in the sky, would I not by now
have readjusted things? Perhaps that none
need die, or that the world can run forever
and on its own new path to perfection?
Hither the morning's blue sky cometh?
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