Between the folds of what's seen as time
and the passing climb of souls divine,
there dwells a form with newborn's eye
that bends the space it occupies.

He comes upon a shell he likens
that's made of flesh and nerves to tend,
and as his body sprouts a thousand arms,
his nascent mind grows fond of them.

But stubborn as he came to be,
his reach was short and blatantly
useless for a thing as he,
that shapes the sky so easily.

Locus was his name to we,
who heard a sound that rang above
as Locus rubbed his palms along
the rim of our perception's gates.

The sound we heard so insectile;
filled our heads with blots of green,
and left us feeling cold and shaken
by the state of mind Locus had taken.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I can't think of anywhere to take this.

View sivus's Full Portfolio