Clouds themselves appeared as explosive gist
of mist athread the white of late aft sun.
Wastelands of throttled clarity til well
past midnight thund’ring chariots become
the darkest rains of glorious clatter
of consonant shush blind sightless on roofs.
Seven hours’ sleep from six to one, tidy sum
then wet racket’s intermittent quiet
presuming recurring repeat fable
of spooky distance tale sets the tables
where in every cosmos what’s possible
must consume thought all things to Form reduced
and so sad Plato’s cave becomes, became
fond child Inevitability’s game
unless, of course, there some whimsy optics
pass by here where all’s a blur and the Of
All Things retains a stifled grasp as One
in universe of but single Cause then
eternal burn of conscious seems undone
and godlike bellpeal reiterate frames
the endless thought that tears be naught but rain.

The high, misty clouds about the declining sun render a ‘wasteland’ unproductive of insight until brought late that night when as vehicles of storm they now bring a raucous on and off of rain, which makes for awareness of eternal recurrence in Nature as active metaphor for the reality within the Real. And this leads one to realize though all can seem formless flux in an array of possible worlds in eternal return Plato’s doctrine all is reducible to immortal Forms is itself an endless, Eternal Thought in repeat—except for just those κόσμοι where humans are nonexistent, or their sensory apparati make for constant indiscernibility and reflection, a vast ‘One’ of an intrinsic formlessness thus, reality then is a tireless knell of diminished consciousness where even tears are indistinguishable from rain, a world reduced to an eternal sadness from the inability to be aware of what sadness itself even is….

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