Sat at my PC,
Watching a world supposedly
At the tips of my fingers.
A bee lies dying on the windowsill,
Sun splashed flowers a few feet away.
The world suddenly seems ethereal.
Thin and without substance.
A matrix of chance webs
Strung out and interconnected,
But thin and friable and translucent.
A small distance between
One strand and another.
Suspended in a pink light void.
And there I sit like a fly caught,
Struggling in my small and quivering way.
If I broke free I’d fall
To land caught on another strand
To struggle and look up at
Where I’d been.
And the light around me would remain
Still and pink and translucent.
The truth lies somewhere
In the constancy of the spaces between
The places to which we become attached.