We are open 

And truthful,

Sometimes even in dishonesty 

Which bring out the clearest shades 

Otherwise we’d all be saints 

Standing rigid and stiff

Pristine from plaster

And unmoving 

Like plastic. 

But we are organic

And flowing,

And capricious,

And mutable. 

As you take steps away from the objects in sight,

It becomes clearly in pattern,

Like the stars which we’ve been walking away from for centuries,

But we can still see them bright in the night as if there is no obstruction,

And when we look around,

Every other star becomes clear and in order. 

Chaos is closest to the heart,

Which is the black hole,

The wrinkle in time,

The time traveler. 

The thing that sucks you up and brings you back

Like Big Bang. 

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