As so gracious fingers fiddle, brushing lightly the ends of a single oblivion, I settle down to the thought of significance.
Falling lightly
almost swarming
each particle swiftly swirling to its destination,
Picking, fiddling, destruction seemingly safe and protected wreaking havoc upon that which quietly consumes itself.
Explosion ease inward, can one keep such implosions quiet?
Can one sink into the silky fabric, poisonous miasma without making a sound?
Will it be significant?
As so gracious hands wrap tightly pulling,
more so lifting.
Releasing free such tendrils, preventing self consumption, breaking free falsified delusions of inconsequence.
Why wouldn't it be?
As so gracious eyes watch so gracious fingers soothe oblivion's wrath,
so gracious eyes glance though linger so strongly upon that one that so gracious arms hold.
I settle down with the knowledge that
every sound is heard,
each particle watched,