Rubble in the Road

There's bullshit that gets smoothed out eventually,
like gravity's dance with the stones of Saturn,
a minuscule cling on a pebble,
angels pushing down on dust floating in the cosmic wind,
falling down and around at such a speed,
akin to when you hit a dip in the road and it causes a single drop of oil to fall,
and the pattern persists into an iridescent puddle.

Time flows similarly 

but with an arrow hard to follow and unfurl,
there's always a catch,
a void.

Pulling us towards a reality of our creation.
With our power, 

we fight towards an unknowable place,
we'll envelop our essence in undeletable, eternal, spirit vessels,
infinitely interwoven with whatever we wish.

Starting with conjecture — a strand,
an irrational creation myth of our weaving,
that we told ourselves when we lived in the woods.

Some finite time from now,
we will all start to grasp towards the foundations
with the whole of our being,
with overflowing bliss, 
fully in love with the gift of life.