Arrows of Meaning

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The central sun is blackened and hollow,
a rotating furnace of unimaginable heat
without boundary or Beginning.
It is the heart of all places.

Where maths meet its circumference, they dissolve into music.
Then disappear.

There are no boundaries, but simple beings
walk along the periphery in thoughtless becoming.
They walk in circles called orbits
with arms behind their back, in repose,
while tigers and shadows tumble and slash in the distance
and formations of doves swoop in amongst them.
Ocean depths appear in far away places
and materialize from the top down.

The core of the central sun is a single Idea-
a perpetual explosion of beings.
It is a Magnificence,
surrounded by ribbons and tendrils of space
that overflow with magnetic transmissions.

We are fractals of Beginning.

There is a river, an arrow of meaning,
from that Place to your own heart.
We are the Idea we are becoming.

Thought is the measure of our distance from
that Center within us.
A marshmallow set close to a warm fire
will be sufficient to teach us
the fate of concepts- mental suppositions, merely-
brought close to the Inferno of Being.

Once, my thoughts were a shield and
now they have become an invitation, and
next they will be a volley of arrowheads
embedded in my heart.
They will resurrect.  The wood of the shaft will turn green.
The feathers will become sparrows and take flight.
Flowers will bloom, and a sweet scent of Knowing
will fill the space around us.


  1. Steve Day says

    Michael this is some of the best poetry I’ve read in a long while. I keep a Raymond Carver and a Pinsky at home in case of emergencies and now I have yours to read as well.


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