So, how long is the wind?
I speak here
Only of the changelings’ atmosphere,
That which settles like breath on sunshine,
But not of any item Spiritual.
Though both, by being the proofs of life,
Circumnavigate, suspend and secrete,
Ahead of the encapsulation of knowledge.
Thus they are also fuels for life.
Embracing biologys’ ephemeral rise and fall.
This is the reflex within which we all
Must plough on, thoraxing lyrical;
Before, before ultimately floundering.
But how is it’s total measured?
Counting, numbering and thereafter toted
In as much as it is,
At it’s ultimate,
It becomes Complete.
(Save that all others seem to have done better than me;
By my own metered estimation).
I am lowly and more so
When singing at my plumbed depths;
Because my time is as ever coloured Black
Even in my crimson flight.
Even now beyond winds
Swirling within the shell of life.
The ubiquitous algorithms have us.
We are now completely codified,
As Is, done, finished.
Certifiable for certain.
The whole breadth of the Cosmos
Fits us now like a sleeve and a glove.
Still further our countenance continues
Among the bitter and the fallen.
For so many of these awakened snoozers
Are like a steaming kettle on a Greater Haul.
At nucleic levels lie the errors of our way.
The method itself, misfits the reason,
It’s not the scientist nor the baker.
Science in all its limiting complexities
Can strive to tell us how,
But not even in its own scientifically ordered description
Can science calculate an explanation of
Or offer proof of Why.