Time folds in on itself,
the arrow bends, grows recursive
we lapse slowly backward
slipping into a protean state.
Our universe is neatly bisected,
the inner workings laid open
showing craftsmanship
far beyond our meager
comprehension, as we cling
to the surface, fear
sliding deep into its depth,
spiral freely in infinite
progression, slowing, approaching
never reaching the source.
We wash up on a beach, we are pulled
from the earth, and we dangle
from the neck of the sun.