by Frank Lloyd Wright
image by Frank Lloyd Wright

The thoughts that linger

of time and space,

about a light bringer

about an unreal place,

of souls and angels

of words and phrases,

painful wrangles,

orbits out of phases.

Hopes for greater hope,

hope for life eternal,

grabbing hold of a slippery rope,

down to fire infernal,

sliding down into a well

built inside of nervous minds,

these cavernous neurons of hell.

That’s where we create the signs,

for in the fear of all things

we long always for something

with no name.

Needing a bigger projection,

around for which all these thoughts ring

a universe too large for one’s

understanding, brought down to scale,

through a narrow gauge rail,

to our singular human conceit:

that we are all and it is

a God that we created

to be at our beck and call.