Wormhole Versonaut Poem by Fred Rik Kesner

'"wormhole verstronaut"


Between the word and what is meant
a hidden curvature resides,
a darkened bridge no map has traced,
where memory on starlight collide.

I cast a syllable at midnight,
it enters diction's slender flame,
and somewhere in another century
a stranger softly speaks my name.

Poems are wormholes through the silence,
rings of gravity in the mind;
they bend the roads of ordinary hours,
leaving clocks and calendars behind.

A scent of rain, a crow at sunset,
one leaf revolving through the air,
becomes a gate through parsec distances
and carries us elsewhere.

Metaphors, bright tachyons,
rush ahead of thought's slow feet;
before the intellect awakens
their impossible messages meet.

Grief is a house of absent echoes,
love a river-learning sky,
and understanding reaches harbour
before its reasons can arrive.

The poet is no king of language,
only a mason of the span,
placing image beside image
to join the soul of man to man.

Rhythm steadies fragile passage
music holds the tunnel true;
through its throat fly seeds of wonder
toward each reader passing through.

And should these lines survive the weather
of neglect, and dust of passing years,
another heart may cross this crossing
and recognise my vanished fears.

Then poet, reader, star, and moment
shall briefly lose their separate forms;
two minds entangled in an instant,
meeting inside a field of poems.

There, language curves beyond its limits,
light gives way to deeper roles;
tachyons of metaphor singing,
through wormholes of intrepid souls.











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