#_minaret

The numbers I tossed on a piece of paper stare back 

      with quiescent wajd  Your lemmas endure hāl

 on the way-stations of proof.   transfinite patterns in a fractal tree. 

     unearth Ibn-e-Myskuea oeuvre     the outpourings of love.

The terrace levitates me at the helm of space 

          Auroras flickers above: dancing spectre tricked out 

in pastel coloured veils,      earmarked a heretic.

As a line, I've got my angles right:

                                           to the vector belong the spoils.

I pull through megrims, and sail via orison mats.

You're all gimbal wires and no bridge—

            I'm about to be swallowed up by the 24th hour; 

 how your words emit      digital non-ink        

I can envisage that gall and bitterness roiling on your face,

             it makes me want to hold you in my arms 

and punch you in the midriff.   : where I coast in neutral 

without the soul.

this seeming film of cobwebs floating in calm clear night. 

 Convince the world you don't exist but only your words.   

Chase me up and down the alphabet, I am the dance 

of numbers into infinity and you haven't come up with 

                                        the definition yet.    

                                        To my questing eyes,      

                                        You're on the verge of....

 written by @_Minaret

curated from twitter feed by @deja_raconte