Quivering about, the bundle darts
this way and that, pressing against
the quaint membrane enclosing it,
entrapping its energy, yet not enough
to pierce the skin, to break free
It prods and examines, for flaws and relaxations,
for a weakness within is a strength without,
the truest aspect of existence, the abstract given form
a material nail hammered into
the wooden post of potential
There’s not enough heat, nor guiding light nor inner sound
the bundle’s fading inside, crowded out
by the billion other bundles, some which eat the others,
some provide sustenance, some consume it,
but all make the membrane stretch, taut and firmer,
more impervious to machinations, both good and bad
The bundle searches, for currents of frenzy,
whose riptides might tear through the oppressor
slashing away the flesh and weight of emptiness
it finds one, and rides it gleefully, its journey
soon will be over
Rushed across the morass of broken bundles,
broken by rot of existence in this everchanging plane,
our bundle escapes, fading outline shining bright
streaking headlong into the looming wall
where lights go out
It splatters headlong against the darkness,
guts of starlight spread along the bricks,
casting a brief shine on places long untouched
by any kind of activity
The streaks start to fade, the gleam drips down
fading into cracks along the oblivion cage,
the inner world continues, unmoving and unperturbed
yet a single drop of silver escapes, squeezed between
the shocking stillness, it is enough
the broken machine springs to life.