Chaos?
Deep into Chaos she peers, gazes, wonders; sees there the madness from which dreams are made. Tiniest glimmer of hope as dances wild, bare to be seen among a complexity that is such disorder. Does think she dreams it, an imagining of her own making, a wishful thought no more real than there being such a thing as nothing; for nothing cannot exist. Not really. And so she stares ever the harder into the complexity of chaos and sees it true.
A dream.
Hers.
Of there being order to the chaos.
And even as she thinks it...
It is.
Cradles then the heavens in her arms, the babe that is life. A child that is moon and stars, the sky above and earth below, eyes aflutter, its heart abeat. And into her child she pours then her being, her love, the essence of a life that until now had been meaningless by compare.
For the child is everything.
And everything!
Is the child.
Copyright: Paul Jameson, August 2021
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