glazed over a twisted glass
circles of void that spin in perpetual motion,
tripping under the spiral of a magician’s wand,
as he lures them towards a frail rope-bridge.
The steps muddy and weak,
they guide with a diffused promise
to a place where gravity is a dream,
and trees translucent, talking to each other
as they gesture shapes of infinite.
In this place, people are stuck,
nailed to the ground like jabs,
glued on earth,
with mouths that cannot speak,
and stories carved in their bodies.
Their words are felt through the ground.
Circulated by veins of furrows
they surpass mountains
like a net that covers the world.
Beyond the pane,
there is nothing.
Only a wave exists. It’s vibration’s rings,
that are imprinted,
in the creator’s white sheet.