There are roses.
A sniff of that—
turns the trees into sharp thorns.
Sit still.
Secured. Guarded.
Then there is a Tree,
meticulously crafted,
big-footing from the deepest deep—
not only skin deep
but the beauty is on—
deep-bone skeleton.
The pixels on the upper layer stay clear,
and perfect balance holds below, through every layer.
A day fades from the rose,
dimmed—even at soothing eve.
Not quite.
It walks in chiaroscuro,
through shades of tangerine,
slipping into the thick of night—
never growing thin—
until it catches the set sun hiding,
eyeing the new moon’s skin.
It stands,
ready for bold conversation,
as the stars emerge,
whispering
through the seven skies.
Wide-eyed death—
inevitable—
rushes in
on beauty’s stake.
But how long did it last?
Before the blink of an eye,
the tree was back in bloom.
In watching galaxies—top of mind—
it grows again,
quietly,
on the sublunary Earth.
Math of the matter
couldn’t be closer,
nor farther—yet it is,
as surely as cumulative math,
with countless truths under the skin,
unfound until the equation fits.
It can appear with precision,
or stay hidden from sight—
under the sun, or the moon, alike.
Sharpest sharp cuts: linear.
Deepest deep, yet curves—
smoothest golden spirals.
The solid full-stop dot
in Ma spaces
springs the sweetest—
a panache showcase
that conquers height
and endures time.
A sniff of it stirs the water—
boundless,
no sea, no ocean, no river,
just flow, forever.
It bumps into paradise above—
roots stretching,
never ceasing.
Deep down, it rocks the pearls,
up high melts the clouds,
rains soft on the glass—
which breaks
into pieces of a star.
Breaks open wide—yet no angle.
Deep down, it never fractures.
Every line, on every lane,
curves inward
to its digital bedrock:
non-linear, vibrating numbers.
Day in, day out—
no ending at the end.
A topological fold
opens and rewraps.
There is a tree:
overhead and on the ground.
Keep an open eye—
it keeps up!
