Idealists dream in an unlikely fashion.
Dreamers speak in a transient way.
Speakers speak to enable the future.
Futurists think of what time will become.

The spinning globe is a little refraction.
Buoyed by laws which we name but don't get.
Repeal the laws and what's left is a memory.
The living thought which created the play.

First was the word and the word was a bang.
Then came the smashing, thrashing, the blasts and the rays.
Then came this, and this spoke to the rest.
So the past came to know itself.

This is not a poem, its just short sentences.
Stacked in four to create an illusion.
Depth, meaning, causation, reversal.
In the end, its all mush given form.