The Great Run On

The ink in the well, the wellspring of my muse, the source begetting the void, bringer of all, birthing the beginning, setting eternal clocks ticking and I spin on the center of the wheel, trying to feel my way back through time, separating space, or moving it together, pushing or pulling, the maker, the made, the earth in the shade and the sea is a shadow of mist, distilling the bliss and listening to wind in the trees, a sky split asunder, the grass that grows under, a sun melting into the sea.