A Chase with No Ending Mark

A game of life and writing dark,
a chase with no ending mark.

Ink and paper just come short
to fading and living moments,
meant to try and capture surreal reality like the lens
on some glamorous machine capturing every flaw.
Ink and paper just come short
to a crevice in the side of a glacier stretching
in one narrow void down and down,
almost to where the giant is curled,
that spawned the ice in primal rage.
Ink and paper just comes short
to stars and galaxies forged in meandering clouds
ripe with fire and sprawling bolts,
where matter is bore out like bones
rising from the earth.
Ink and paper just come short
to waves bashing the shore meshing
earth and water in earthquake harmony,
until the liquid throws over it's white belly
to spread wavering colors in graceful arcs.
If any road was hammered and built
through letters, words, and phrases,
it would be that of an incomplete; perfect dream.
Varying snapshots of reality that nearly
strike the chest in authenticity,
but leave you wanting the real
taste of far off wonder.

A game of life and writing dark,
a chase with no ending mark