Every day regardless of the goodness or evil lurking in my soul

I see kipper skies, placid blue occasionally, but much more

Like the rippled skies of Turner, of wind on a lake, of how the skies of the young Mozart

(And he was forever-young) might have seemed when he was adding

Note to searing note to produce the magnificence of the Requiem or the Magic

Of the Flute. A God-given piece of a mere nothing, designed for soul-searching the spheres of consciousness

A way of  approaching experience, that included those times of unconsciousness,

When the brilliance of a Johnny Keats’ dark star  sharpened knife managed (God-knows-how)

To cut out the cancer, designed by my wildfire genes to kill me. Thank God

For science, for all the brilliance of the driven-man, for all the all-unnaturally

Universal digressions of Mathematics, for all of the randomness of prime numbers.  For knowing that destiny is just a will o’- the- wisp, a follower on facebook, a merry nothing.