The curve is filled with an intensity of emotions that stretches to eternity.
The curve trembles in fear.
The curve can taste the edges of the silence in its tentacles.

O Galileo!  What path can we follow away from the gravity of Earth?

The curve is empty, spilling its contents into a weightless void.

The mirror gathers the songs of the lost and echoes them back in a pulsing of 808s.
The mirror reflects the images of the night sky, magnifying the sound.

Remember the pattern:  E=mc2.

The voiceless parabola crosses between the lines.
The voiceless parabola becomes the lines.

Galileo burns all the mirrors.

If E=mc2 what does K=?

Our illusions will fail to be optical.
Our unborne illusions will overshadow our minds.
Our illusions will be part of the equation.

(Que Sera, Sera)

Our illusions will dance on our graves,
stretching forever along the curve of our blindness,
into the vast unknown.

I thought the NaPoWriMo prompt list of random directions for writing a poem would result in something silly.  But that’s not where it wanted to go.

Art inspired by Richard Diebenkorn.