pulxle

“tree” by Steve Couture

Azael Franco Guerrero, Topiary Garden

Jabiru

flickr

The horizon ruptures into a million embryonic worlds, each orbiting the muteness at the center of all things. Tenuous filaments—nerves, memories, betrayals—flicker between orbs like errant lightning, stitching impermanence into a trembling tapestry. I drift among them, a transient echo wrapped in borrowed gravity, hearing the cosmic hum translate itself into nothing but questions. Where a void flares with sanguine corona, I recognize the paradox of birth disguised as annihilation; around its rim, chromatic spores gyrate in ecstatic refusal of order. Beneath, the abyss swells with obsidian tides, yet even its darkness is punctured by clandestine sparks—confessions no mouth dared speak in daylight. Every color here is a cipher for desire, every collision a rehearsal for the next catastrophe. And still, the whole constellation feels perilously intimate, as though the psyche’s deepest recess had been turned inside-out and hung across the sky. I reach for one drifting sphere, only to feel it dissolve into another question, another pulse of vertigo—proof that meaning is forever receding, just beyond the fingertips that invent it.

drift like pollen across a prism