When the sky has been painted, by accident consequence, in bluest of clouds, yet the great bronze beyond, sings to the wave particles, that carry their glory, and with it, the world's desire.
His head is weary, where heart hides a hole, once filled with the wonder of satellites, strawberries; grown from the pillow of the chest laid upon, milked cream lines the throat, in severance, sated, and swallows him down.
Re-normalised now, in quantum field theory, countering the shortfall, when approaching infinity. What probability greater than one, can ever be faithful, & fit the finiteness of limited scope, with scale of mind, and sheen of skin, when safe in the knowledge of the truest of truths, that the infinite endless has always been.
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