The First Sphere Descends Poem by Tanathica

The first sphere descends into the flat ocean, the first of eight
None could know, as soon as that distant orb shifted, the process had begun
But it strains the sky in decline and puts pressure on the ocean, pressed like a tile
This is the first of the changes, the shift in feeling that bends the flow of air and unsettles the breath

The Second, at first a mote, sneaks the path of it's agenda over the course of the day
Perhaps the astute understand and bid it stop
But what simple sentiment could alter the colossal impetus of the sphere?
This is the second of the changes, the portent that, once shown, confirms the process

The Third descends unsubtly and eclipses the Second, bringing night
Only the judicious comprehend celestial pattern at first causes
But now, penumbras contrast clearly, in rotation performing spatial puncturing
This is the third of the changes, the last of flowing moments before a new cosmogeny

The Fourth is a sphere in all but form and metrics, it's dominates the sky and tyrannizes
Hearts writhe and the dripping muscle beats crudely in painful new rhythms
It's corona drenches every particle, burning into extremity of sentience and singularity of cognizance
All changes flicker, sway, crackle, but all save the heavy residue of struggling vitality shoot upwards
This is the fourth of the changes, inversion of light and feeling

The Fifth encloses all, a membrane for unstable atmospheres
The flesh moving into new space, space moving into old flesh, light into structure
Mass and thought is pulled apart by laws; in newly redoubled proprioception, the living suffer
This is the fifth of the changes, autonomic patterns renewed concentrically commence

The Sixth is hidden, one of an uncentillion,
Discarded thoughts build infinitesimal cities on it's surface
As one nonliving autocrat of grains gives his commands
One atrocious tone tears through the globule of the real
The twisting of the universal axis, the bending of the unimagined spine
The tone splits, the parts align cacophony into a chord
This is the sixth of the changes, the thrumming of null worlds in prenatal gulfs of space

The Seventh spins, it moves beyond descriptive ken
Each face of it's circumference spins vision entirely, in motion engraves it's own description in the infrastructure of nature
And all the churning of realspace ends in distinct birth, erupting from possibility
Averted sight collapses it's prior subjects, which in time peels back the barriers of gaze
This is the seventh of the changes, the impossibility of silence, eternally

Fragments now entirety, there is no real diremption
Change sutures only space, and in unanimity, no gestalt singularity
The core is gone, presence is empty, though thought thrives
This is no ending, it is the process