Prime Matter

A poem.

There in the midst of the ether, watch as they swim,
the reckless abandon of each of the murmuring tadpoles.
See how the swelling takes hold of the struggling dancers,
All arrayed in strange colors of bile and wine. The waste without form,
Chaotic and stagnant, shapes without shapes, muscles:
But no bones to cling to. Freedom in circles
but circles that wobble and wind on the face of some nothing.
Feel with your fingers, the slime and the ooze of the fearsome.

Hear, like a wind in the forest, the whining like wolves,
Hovering over the waters. Secretly pouring a gravy,
An etching of flavor and salt on the wounds of creation.
Floating like words in the air, the airless whispers of creatures
Yet to be born, and there in the inchoate darkness
A new freshness furled, the masts not even assembled.
Set hope in the waters, momentum and gravity bearing,
Brooding, and cooing over the eggshell of time.