In the Abstract

I am wondering what remains of all those invasive memoirs. The secrets that which the universe begins to fall back upon when everything turns to ash and that open eye in the constellations decides that plan A is "no longer with us." What does that eye see anyways? What Majesticies are in those retinas that my near- sighted starlids are not intuned with? I blink at the thought of it. At the very idea that we are being run into each other by a divine pen, guided by the memory of some unknown manifestation in the spheres. Have we cut our own threads or have we been cut off? I can not say anything for certain, for there are no certainties within the blaze. No gray piece of concrete that little boys and girls can ride upon and strike off for adventure. There is only abstraction and inside that is hope. Hope that when we lay down, we can dream ourselves to sleep and be the writers of our own book. Sounds sentimental I know but Albert Goldbarth would understand I'm sure. Ah Old man inside the urn, this blue boy is so mixed up.