A fluttery piece of parchment
in the bowels of a tree:
is a space-time horizon
over which we cannot see

It is composed of gravity and fear -
this dead weight inside me,
which I carry around all day,
often tries to kill me
and it won’t go away.

I send this freight’s immensity
to the centre of a black hole;
retracing the wandering journey
of my wandering long-lost soul.

Mine is a grave-singularity 
that contains a terrible mass,
fitted into an infinitely small space,:
it's a  density — gravity — immensity — interface.

Locked in this space-time conundrum,
I'm curving towards a singular fault-line,
where the laws of physics cease to be
and where time elongates for me
finally, setting the dead images free

Into a technological singularity 
a ‘superintelligence’ AI,
neither random, nor designed,
it's one in the eye for pie-in-the-sky.
it just triggers my mind
into the expansion required in time

Poetry - results in this altered human state,
a discarding of the complacently malign:
a re-ordering of time
that always comes too late
for us to read the signs