What is the purpose of this pen in hand,
Writing encoded messages of an abstraction’s abstraction?
What point are these pointed words,
Which have no power without you before them?
I can’t learn the answer;
It is hidden in measurements and data,
But I am not an empiricist or scientist;
So the answer evades me.
Still, I’m called before the processed tree carcass,
The parchment on which I impart my soul,
not to measure or define,
but to explore the spirit of the world.
This is the less visceral form,
The medium that encodes and deconstructs,
The medium penetrating reality through lies,
Through fiction and image.
I cannot tell you if the universe is truly infinite,
I am not NDT, or any other pick-a-name celebrity scientist;
But I can show you the infinity of the world within,
The worlds that inhabit each one of us.