Pixels

..and the spin begins
each orbit,
eyes.
and
time lays soft along the parallels.

There are constant murmurs
in the foreground
which are whispers to ignore.

And more to see
universally speaking,
but like an unwound clock
my minutes are leaking away.

At the beginning when time
was a drawing on the celestial
chalkboard,
I wondered who had pitched the plan,
a man or maybe a god?

At this point where time and space coexist
I cease
and peace at last,

the spinning stops
the whispering ends
and my body bends into
submission.

Questions.

How much room would I need in a vacuum to feed my soul?
Is there any point me being on point at that point I mentioned earlier?
Why is the spin always counter-clockwise?

And finally
where does the spin begin?

© 2019, John Smallshaw.