Random facts or figurative constructs passed along from life to a mind,
Only engages the conviction from within static comfort,

Until its defects reflect the cure to details of its own creativity,
Fact is , fact is more impersonal than all the ties that bind it to purpose,

If the earth was flat & sustained without proportionate surface tension,
A light at the end of a tunnel would be the orbit to gravitate visions,

Endless depth & countless stars to navigate oblivion,
A life without the need to sleep out of metronome discomfort,

Or geopositional mapping to articulate circadian rhythms in black & white,
Levitated in states of mind encapsulated like fountains,

Flowing out of great passages of water in a crystalline paradox,
Raising spectre’s just so, that floating end’s don’t touchdown into a fullstop,

No memory to fill the otherwise empty soul of the world,
Except of grand adventures and the eternal mornings sundering,

Neither proposed defects of a rational relativity to cherish,
Or avoid in the loss of reason draining life from what it costs to exist,

From equilibrium’s of contentment as a global processing skill,
& no effort of control ever available to spare in a galactic perspective,

To see things whole in a blended bliss where self amounts to naught,
Never compromising & ever relentlessly fought for within a circle of its flaws,

As in, ancestraly acceptable levels of threat abolishing satisfaction,
For wisps of cloudy unknowns to flow into sunlit streams of passion,

Beside a spiral stairway left aside out of choices aimed at future comfort,
In systems of consequence worth its weight of peace in its present,

At odds with cost and effect having thawed from the polar ends,
Half in ,half out anyway’s in a condiment of infinite dimensions,

Inference : The reach vs grasp of the mind-reality membrane gets in the way,
Of intuition manifesting into the realms of imagination every fucking time.,