Your heart is axiomatic.
Your hands are built of stone.
Your vitreous humour flows like lava
And pushes and carries me closer to home.

Haunt the forests where you wander
Of artificial wood and stone
Glass rivers, plastic lichens,
You made them.
Holy books and woodland logics,
Transcendental numerals,
Algebras bow in worship:
You wrote them.

When you sing, cicadas chirrup.
When you kneel, the sun kneels too.
When you tell of the wandering hero
You sing and recall him back to you.

Limestone hopes and plaster futures,
Pointless and pathetic dreams,
Leaves that spew from mouths and nostrils:
Your ideas.
Phosphor stars and concrete mountains;
Luminous, pedantic screens;
Holographic birds and insects
Say: you're real.

Your skin is the ocean.
Your words with lighthouses glow.
Your voice captures the ice-ship
Which travels over this desert of snow.
Your truth is axiomatic.