layered

me and you are part

of an intricate palette—

colours are blending,

bending and mending

to tell a story of old,

kept present in legacy.

we get to exist longer

as complicated tales,

whose paths to the end

could have otherwise

gone infinitely worse.

therein lies our security—

assurances were made

when end became beginning.

form would be kind to us,

letting us fly among stars.

we would be the astronomers’ study,

our stories stroked upon canvas canopy;

our drawings would be heard beyond.

we are still relevant to those behind.

time rushes to the end—

her potent patience holds us dear.

her lessons inwardly layer us with

impenetrable but accessible might,

so when we get to heed the light,

it would be mourned with no spite:

“oh, how a waste it is to bear

a soul to be lost to ominous oblivion!”—

one intended for unpatterned potential,

one purposed to swing away sways of

tides carrying our fatigued eyes,

that we may learn to bear, in merry measure,

a momentous sighting of infinity herself—

cloaked in all her unfathomable extents,

enthroned in all her raging endlessness.

From my poetry collection The Staccato Phenomenon (2023), a six-part exploration of rhythm, legacy, and the cosmic echoes that shape human endurance.

This poem reflects on how our stories persist — layered through time, colour, and consciousness — even as we move toward the infinite.