Where is the
crux of time’s continuum,
the terminal of
every wormhole?
Where do all
spirits, whether luminous
or ruined,
converge in a whirlwind?
Lost in the
swirl of wings and fiery eyes,
both tweakers
and time travelers end their trips there.
All bullets
break through space’s barriers
and burrow in
the marrow of the man there.
Rippling through
space and time,
all prayers
reach there and finally rhyme.
At the core of
contradiction,
the sign of
perpendicular lines,
lies the site
where all sacrifices unite.
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