A Poem

A chemical spirit:
real, and in ethereal array,

gliding higher, soaring on
her gilded wings of clay.

The key to beauty,
and the lock on her door —

to light up the dark,
to limit the unlimited,

to know what was not known before,
to whisper some secret never told,

the mother to the future, and 
the father of the past,

the lantern bright and 
the shadow deeply cast,

the reflection of that mirror
with cracks on its surface,
fallen on by starlight,
kissing perfect rays and
sending them splintered.

A perfect warmth shed
from the hottest furnace,
whose goodness knows no bound,
and whose evil knows no limits.

God’s broken brush strokes,
all for an impression. 
The only true artwork,
impossible to preserve — 
or to know more than once.

Impression, that bottled message on
her very shores,
those long stretches of fascination
characteristic to it,
essential to it,
spanning that lonely island
occupied by one
and a billion.

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