A ball of sunlight strikes your ribcage
and turns it into a swirling tornado
rising to your esophagus. It rebels
towards the narrow tunnel, demanding
the path to be turn to a space as vast as
the galaxy. The birds chirp and the
crickets sing the song of the wild.
Your eyes bulge out like a heart
struggling to escape, caged within
a gray skull created from the starting
of time. The grand meaning of events
is hidden within these words, within
these man-made way of linking souls.
As the wise woman says, ‘It is a soul
made tangible: colourful butterflies,
caged beasts, the farthest of shadow,
but above all, it is a tool, a weapon,
a device which fools our eyes and plays
with our brains.’
The third of everything is always the
luckiest; this is a fabrication, as the fourth
is the piece you are looking for; the magic pierces
through these twisting letters. The grand
meaning of events is a lie. It is the way the gods
humour themselves. The joke is on you.
Thank you for reading.