Something Old, Nothing New

Crimson sky and open spaces
blend to form the illusion of now.

Photons and protons dance among
their spaces; innocent deception.
Protoplasmic transferal catching its reality
from the glint of seeming substance.
To trick the knower with a perceived beauty
based upon chance combinations of past
translations from illusory sources.

What obtuse translator will be content with this
contrived perception?

Could there ever be more than all?

Phil Miller