There Is No Hill To Understanding.

The door is a jar

pouring out

the world behind

oil painted

over the abyss we call Time.

A tiny swirl spins out of proportion

look closer

in this storage box atop

a lake of dark interstellar ice.

Close your lids it’ll take you in.

Are you a dream?

Is that hand really yours?

Visualize

the surface slowly crack.

Traces of cosmic wind

blow magic thru memory,

One day, shattering.…. traces…..

up in flames, the sterile coffin bedding will not hurt your bones. GREGORY MARK SONDROL © 02/09/2020