Beginning.
Cascading letters,
Cursive words talk
Loudly, all heard is silent.
Silence a value with no placement,
Much like the number zero.
It is a mirage for what seems to be,
Nothing, is actually something.
So how does one place value
On things that are not concrete?
How do abstract thoughts trickle down
Deep in consciousness?
How do we know what is solid and what is gas?
We are all molecular atoms.
We are (in)animate objects.
Connected from a genetic theory
Of tiny vibrating spheres.
To relate oneself to zero,
Could be as rewarding as
Being rated a ten.
Whimsical nothings, we are.
Empty air overflows and spills
On what appears to be
A desolate plane.
Perhaps it is what
We cannot sense
That makes life
A never ending
Reality.
About the Creator
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Disarmament
They say there's no atheism in the foxhole. While I wasn't currently neck-deep in a river of soft sediment, I was still praying to whoever would listen. Why am I doing this again? I would ponder while staring at the device that in no less than a minute could be my undoing. I scanned each and every variable panel and commonplace button as I watched the bright red L.E.D ticker countdown. No wires to cut, no code to put in, there was only one way to stop this infernal machine, and that incurred perfect timing.
By James U. Rizzi2 days ago in Fiction
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