By P.D. Battle

In this world,
there are few Certains.
Laws of physics and elements
unraveling the order of chaos.
Chemistry and equations
that won’t stop trying to balance,
Yin yangs
scurrying between wholeness and co-dependence
like tightrope circus strolls.
I’ve seen a planet dwarf,
and stardust walking hand in hand on Main Street.
The moon riding the sun missionary in a room with pink sky walls on a bed
of daytime stars.
Makes me wonder about us?

Maybe we are faints;
refugees on this blue ball
with air 
thin as apparitions?
I remember when,
you could see right through me.
When my only proud shadow, 
was in your light.

Maybe our story has become echoes
of ash and ghost,
arterial murmurs
we bury in urns
we call Art?

Perhaps our castle of refuge
is really a museum of redemption.
Where hiding evolves into preservation?
The intersection of our X and Y
is an edge,
chiseling through
plaque in our veins.
We bleed for
pardons and promises,
halls of back lit masterpieces
we can witness, 

without swimming through motes.

These arms are limp 
from holding
fairytales,
where dragons are known for flames,
instead of their wings.
My chest is an aching cavern,
where a half heart beating
sounds whole,
resounding a phantasm of the rib you gave,
and took back.

This tale is the
rhythm in our pores.
A quest to reconcile
eardrums for equilibrium’s sake.
Our axes crisscrossing
to determine origins,
or at least make better sense of the
point.