Potential rattles against a holy
fortress stagnant in its sameness.
A substrata of fear
jangles nay saying
voices in your head,
blurring visions of tomorrows,
while potential’s rattle
snakes and shakes
until its sprouts pierce
the illusionary surface of existence
splintering color throughout your world
enticing voices to quietly vanish
into the gloaming of everything that came before.
This piece came from a wordle at The Sunday Whirl. This week’s wordle was built from three Wallace Stevens poems.