Echoes and Ocean Currents

Setting out, setting out

The potential that sits within each moment eventually becomes forever, just as the future will eventually become the now

These moments are what help us believe.

v_esc= √(2gm/r)


Curving my steps to a view of what’s just outside of the edge of the compass. Where space collapses into the moment, then the moment collapses into forever.

Sometimes I digress with description, will you go blind with me?


An oil slick primed for a spark within a blink of the horizon’s eye, wonder the warm background almost a coat itself. The heart arcs overhead, I can hear it but my eyes can never catch it. The smell of burnt wood lingering in the air. A taste of radiation poisoning. Wonder seems to be the warm background, static at times, blue and static.


When looking outward I fell inward, into the shuffle and the environment.

Linear, the background was warm and static. The potential that sits within each moment, and my genuine interest in that potential seemed to bring the moment to a stop. Now, the smell of the rain was not too far off. Awareness gave me the moment, but the moment had always known forever. The infinite snapshot. Not separate but echoes in sliver, wonder the warm background.


Our eyes lock as the compass points north, similarities between the flame that sits near me and the horizon’s eye. The metallic splinters rung with the silver echo, the pain in my hand traveled up through my arm but once it got near the flame the wave of pain rolled back down and destroyed the splinters in my hand.

I met you, I met the moment, then we met forever. Electricity filled the air, dense electricity. Dense electricity in thin air, making each breath sharp and electric. While trying to fight the sudden arrival of lightheadedness we decided to see what was going on. Defined as a reflection, a snapshot in the winds of forever, as we try to fit the tornado for a straitjacket. The colors became brighter and the static background became warmer.

A bit of warmness in each reflection. A quick shuffle within the echo. A small flame under the ocean currents in the sky.

I finally gathered the courage to look out the window, I could see the ocean currents taking different routes. Amongst all of them, and even from this distance I could see a new ocean current made of ink rain.


The clouds were off in the distance now, I made a mental note to come back later and try to see if any of the other currents were affected. The edge of the reflections splintered off into the shuffle. The sliver echoes bounce off of the flame that sits on your sleeve.

Braveness in the forever that you are a part of, forever in the moment that you are a part of. More flames gather under the ocean currents in the sky. The heart arcs overhead, I can hear it, but my eyes can never catch it. The smell of the rain returns with the winds from the shuffle. Fallow the tilts in the compass, dense electricity and thin air. Wonder seems to be the warm background, static at times, blue and static.


 

Happy New Year, some of the best poetry is created by the moments in your life that feel like bits of infinity and what you really love has fused with your heart. I hope this year and the years to come are filled with moments like that for you. Thanks for reading, and I’ll see you soon.

 


 

 

Poetry written by Arron Leland
I’ll try to catch the part of me that is falling. Until then I’ll try to learn how use my wings from the butterflies that hand me the phone when you’re calling. – Arron Leland

Atlas and the Original Blindness/Navigating the Surface

Down the rabbit hole, and further into the idea of the muse we go.

 

 


 

 

The speed at which,

Look out the window for Schrödinger’s cat and the heavens shift.

Lucky and naïve but these moments are what help us believe.

The blue radiation melds with the expanding spaces, the potential within each moment expands the floors even faster. The arrival of the original blindness lets me use only my heart to see.

No matter where my journey takes me bits of blue radiation will surround some points on the map. Trails of light, and campfires sit in places where we tried to understand the loss of sight.

The land spaces on the map were curved and rigid in many different places like the letters of the language I use. The poetry of the earth is written in lava and mud and eventually cooled into the lands we know of today. In cursive I loop my way through these lands curving each step to the tempo of my heart.

Sun rays comb different sides of the planet as the solar system tilts like a compass.

My own consciousness greatly resembling,

My own heart greatly resembling

The horizon’s eyelashes comb different sides of the planet as the solar system tilts like a compass.

Make sure to watch the time throughout our journeys many nights go by but when I’m with you it seems like the sky has only blinked twice.

I try to hold up my eyes after the heavens shift to watch the night sky. Atlas keeps the horizon’s eye open, letting us see through the sky’s lens. Atlas held up the sky just as I tried to hold up my eyes to let my imagination flow a little longer. The longer I tried to stay awake the more my imagination took over.  As I looked out to the sky’s lens that Atlas held open my dreams looked out the window of my eye from deep inside my heart.

I thought about the countless formations into which the chimes could be arranged and the countless formations into which the raindrops could fall, and the countless formations my thoughts sometimes take.

The curve of the continuum found its way into the tempo. The ink rain found its way onto the map. The ink slowly covers the pictures of the land on the map just as concepts overlay letters to give them meaning.

Look out the window for Schrödinger’s cat and the heavens shift.

A feeling that captures the moment, radiation and ink began to float outside of the context.

Dark spots in my vision began to swallow my sight entirely.

 

 


 

 

Poetry written by Arron Leland
I’ll try to catch the part of me that is falling. Until then I’ll try to learn how use my wings from the butterflies that hand me the phone when you’re calling. – Arron Leland

Website Powered by WordPress.com.

Up ↑