Galactic invertebrates carve out small black holes.
The dark matter settles; a passage is far from sight.
Colours fracture and expose their inner workings;
a cluster materialises and then vanishes from sight.
The children press their eyes into small glass circles;
the second sibling of her son comes into sight.
Shiny spheres spin rapidly on small wooden stands;
the country towns and blue lakes are blurred from sight.
The ethereal gypsies shuffle cards in their tents;
they tell us of the future, it’s a beautiful sight.
What can we do to convince Him we’re special?
Will he ever come down and visit this site?
The man with the knowledge is unable to walk;
his mind is so precious, and so often we cite.
My luminous mother appears but once a day.
She’s bold, but imperfect, and her dark side is out of sight.
By Nick Holt
Bachelor of Arts, Majoring in Philosophy and Writing