asymmetric

The sky does its worst, the earth content to just lay back and take it. These waves of black and gray slowly turning to blue, these fields of green awaiting the inevitable fire. These trails of smoke ascending to some meager idea of heaven. Dawn breaks and all the colors are filled in, even the gaps in matter, even the invisible and the inferred. The air is leavened with these stubborn threads of light, the day inked and painted according to its portions. There should be some balance, all things taking under due consideration. There should be some explanation, reason being left out there to soak it all in.

Ice clatters against its kin and the ghastly plastic that contains it as it slowly changes states. Droplets condense and weep down the sides of the cup, leaving circles of moisture on the shelf between drinks. Something about something finding its own level. Something about heat distributing itself evenly throughout this thickening of busy matter. There are lessons to be had, if one has a mind set on learning. There are secrets to keep, if one is determined to have something up the sleeve. Cold water offering some margin of comfort amid such a seething of ache and worry.

Mostly we are fooling ourselves, but it is an honest sort of deceit. The limits of sensory acuity combined with the assumptions born of feathered nerve and hewn bone leave us tricked and treated. We are tethered to this odd spiral, this eager twisting and knotting that symmetry makes our lot. Left brain to right hand, sight the result of a few mirror tricks, our minds nattering away at their selves. Each of us a singular legion, a set of shifting alliances, a record of poisoned wells and holy grails. Each of us a light shining outwards, a set of nesting dolls swallowing one reliquary after the next. Each of us a gaping darkness, a density of empty, a few words scattered over the dew.