Untitled.

"The eye altering, alters all."  -W. Blake

Soft, scraggly lashes, pale black, rather brown,
surround white flesh, laced with the thinnest of threads
red, like obscene microscopic worms in the sea.
See the opus oculus, firm dark blue border, now
how it holds firm against those red invaders and
stands opposite the white mass.
Past the border that repels the badlands, the field
yielding a perpetual crop of blue glass flecked,
specked with slate gray, with a vein a shade
faded gold, bright in an earlier generation. It
fits seemingly so neatly, properly, into its place,
space contained like a supernova in the firmament, cosmic dust
thrusting radiation, beaming particles of ships,
blips on the radar, bits of space men and worn,
torn satellites like a galaxy of dreams,
seams ripping and repairing over and over time,
prime numbers multiplying into infinite square roots,
suits vastly the real estate in orbit bound
around the endless black hole,
soul keeper,
weeper.