Where is the boundary of the plane stripped of all its skin?
Why does the ash vibrate, bereft of contour and measure?
Who drafted the triangle – this bared, burnt-out house of char?
And what unreckoned projections lie dormant within it?
What flame is melting the subtlest matter here?
How to unbind consciousness from its tautly drawn fetters?
Where is God hidden in the hush of blackened bricks?
Why do the fragments of worlds keep merging back into one?
How to touch all that has lost both form and essence?
What millstones of anxiety hum incessantly at the temples?
Why does plasma devour the sharp shards of truth?
Where, in the fractures, to find the bonds time has cleaved?
Why does the sky’s surface stream without lines or bounds?
Who fixes symmetry in the chaos of feral fires?
Why has only a single charred vertex remained of the home?
How to lay through the ash one last, phantom route?
Why does the mind derive saving equations each moment?
Can the algebra of despair explain anything at all?
Where to seek the golden section amid the ruins?
Who dared to disturb the statics of the scorched walls?
Is fire only a scalpel, excising memory to the ground?
Why does space vanish at the point that had only just been?
Where is the vector to stitch the cleft dimensions into accord?
Who inscribed irrevocable collapse into physics itself?
…The questions have burnt out. The subject is forever struck dumb.
The shadow of the triangle stubbornly seeks the lost countenance.