I don’t believe in anything,
but I believe in this:
in slender arms appearing through a closed door
bearing knowledge of something I just seem to have grazed,
turning my sight from the out
to the inner
to the out
and the inner again.
no beauty matches this.
not even that of symphonies brimming with eternal laughter
or fields– cut in two perfect mirroring stanzas,
not even the red of the Blood Moon I couldn’t see,
or the pure joy found only in insanity…
but it exists, this, it is,
and windows lose their purpose,
patterns no longer follow their predestined directions
and no prophecy waits be fulfilled.
if it leaves
I hope the door will be left as it is;
I want for it to remain closed.