The human eye is greedy for patterns,
always weaving faces from whispers of static,
always stealing shapes from ghostly clouds.
A burnt slice of bread holds a sermon,
a splash of water births a Madonna.
We are architects of illusion, excavators
of stories buried in milk foam galaxies.
We press meaning onto the meaningless,
trace wings onto chipped paint swirls,
fingers flitting over ancient rock smudges,
whispering, "Do you see it too?"
Perhaps it’s loneliness painted in sepia,
this need to believe the universe sees us,
to pretend the heavens stumble onto
kitchen counters or idle bathroom mirrors.
It is a magic trick made of longing,
looking for God in coffee stains,
or mercy in a cracked windshield starburst.
But oh, how beautiful to imagine everything
watching us back, grinning in secret.
-
Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: July 29th, 2026 11:36
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 12
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments2
A beautiful write Gray painting the brain as a conspiracy theorist seeing patterns where there are none. Well done and a fave
Thank You Soren I always appreciate your feedback
You are most welcome
Whatever gets you through. I recognise elements of that - thanks for reminding me.
Thank You Dave
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