By Andrew R. Duckworth
It was little more than a shape,
Just a square, maybe a circle,
Initially, but it morphed
To a trapezoid.
Peppered in crystals danced
Around a bonfire of bleeding light
And grasped the angles,
Twirled about like drunken faeries
And consequently fell to their death.
The rains of pigment came
And a flood cleared the field.
Stars built arks and waited for land.
Strange how something so simple
Found madness in complexity.