What is the world but a series of distortions
Of the imperfections, mottling across the landscape
Of kindnesses that are different from what came before
Of the gratitude, of the desire to be together
Of connecting, briefly, of brevity of words
Distorted we are, the writers of our fates
Willing the freedom that the ripples might indicate
If they could be surfed
All the way to the shore
And yet
Upon mine honor
The blockages
Additional distortions that lead to additional ripples
And as I write
I try to remember
To read
And to feel
And to distort as well
For throwing stones into the pond
Is not just a hobby
It's a calling
And surfing the ripples of any size
Is not just for fun
It's for love
And for shifting
Across the universe
The position of the stars
By shifting one's position
Across from the sun
Moving one's body
To a different position
And knowing that without a distortion
There would be no light
And no dark
And these polarities
Guide not in any direction
But to the fact of directions themselves
And I feel as though my friends
Are sitting
Or standing
Or walking
Nearby and far away
And I feel them
Distorting the fabric of time
And relative space
We stars
Cascading across a cosmos unweary
Tirelessly changing to adapt to the fact of the matter:
We are distortions of a new and different kind
And we are guided by our reading of our distortions
A close reading
And a light reading
A dream interpretation
An alchemical alluvulation
As we make the marks
And surf the sparks
Roman Ryan 