The Mind After Everything Has Happened
– Rowan Ricardo Phillips 
Perpetual peace. Perpetual light.
From a distance it all seems graffiti.
Gold on gold. Iridescent, torqued phosphors.
But still graffiti. Someone's smear on space.
A name. A neighborhood. X. X was Here.
X in the House. A two-handed engine
Of aerosols hissing Thou Shalt Not Pass
On fiery ground. A shot-down Aurora
Borealis. That raised areola
At the tip of the tongue of I or Thou.
Benedict Robinson, text me, if you know:
If Hell is a crater to a crater
To a crater to a crater, what then
Is Heaven, aside from its opposite,
Which was glorious, known and obvious?

[via Poetry Daily]

Not at ‘some point’ later.  Destinations get you nowhere.  And not when ‘six feet under’. Unless you bow religious. The slightly captured perpetual moments we float ourselves into, and out of. At times near to, or far from. Getting it, or not even getting something as obvious as, the sky in the ocean or the ocean in the sky. Ah, so good thing for the guiding reminder of good poems! 

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