Ash Ra
Out of bland, perforating darkness are slivers of events, jolting out of neutral space.
Like slits they bleed through each other hoping for convergence of light.
They pound and thrash at the sky, rattling the expansion of silence in the cosmos.
Their lifetimes are often instantaneous and rarely consequential, but if they latter comes to be, was it really?
A question in relation to its residue.
For their beauty is exalted in the tenderest of our somatic universe.
They drop blends and bombs of draining energy from their jaws of life into swirling cocoons of stillness.
How they entrench the opportunity for future force in a frenzy fathomable only by its inability to confront its visceral pith.
But does that negate its primal behavior?
Or is it the subjugation proposed by the laws of nature, which renders it void?
To choose the former, is to have silenced its beauty, in process.
And the latter, to have traveled in excess, across its dimensional recess.
