Random is a word of  averageness
With a gluey comfort sticking out
On a poet's firmament, on a night
Of dark mystery as his  words shine
Against  a sky of beauty, a fine flower
That would flutter like a bird about it
Uninvited tiny beak poking mystery
Inside of a sweetness,a flower dust
Like rice flour of  star dust sprinkled
On the marbled floor of a night sky

In all this is color of magenta, soft rich
Folds of cottony clutter,not belonging.
When we have single petals of rebellion
We do not have layers of settled being
A thought exploring beauty of unbeing
Absence of a never presence, a death
Of presence, a  hologram of thing else
Taking place  elsewhere, to another sky
A breath with a mouth of  uttered song
A soft death in a sky of happenstance
A window that will open to an infinity
Of a night that will never flip to a dawn.


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