falling angels meteor trajectory
stepping over a ledge of choice
letting the inner defect be
the informer of your voice
all the chaos maths add up
to a kind of order
liquid information fills the cup
and you are not a hoarder
so you do choose what glitters as gold
you do not choose the trinket
somewhere else in space’s deep cold
you can have it because you can think it
heaven is a place where ideas bloom
and earth is a place where meaning rests in death
from a room you dream a womb
and draw out every breath
learning how to see through the mind’s eye portal
the infinite translated into something as bright
all the angels now become mortal
and the heavenly host says good night