April 5 by The Running Son
you and me
by fate as it may be, may
have roots, may’ve been
just a baby
when twin primes
lined up like school kids
for tickets to this stadium event.
horizons a palette of possibility:
pi, the american dream
replete with pocket pitfalls
grouping up for one hellofa ride
through lives not calculated by gods,
not breathing in some huddle,
not the math types, or necessarily
petulant pop stars not liking
the heaven they’re paired in.
not another life not meeting you.
please, not the childhood again
or the loss of it. not me understanding
heartbreak. the next life maybe
we’ll understand these complex
spacial arrangements weaving fate.
just me and you, swinging
to some random music.
by Jim Aldrich (:
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.