When its motion stopped,
I realised that my circle of life
became an insignificant spot,
desperate, frightened, alone,
like a tired fire juggler
abandoned by an audience
too dull to notice
the beauty of the single detail
constructing their illusion…
“How odd” he said,
“In vitro, every now and then
becomes a schism
embedded deep between
what’s left, and yet to be…”
Streets become discontinued cobbles,
trees become ungerminated seeds,
all birds remain abandoned egg shells,
and every life’s a single heart’s
unfinished tapestry of beats…
THEORETICAL PHILOSOPHY 