Somewhere beyond the imperfection of this charcoal's irregular edge.
Somewhere beyond the finite perimiter of this sand grain, this shoreline,
there lies infinity, a pure line, a mathematical curve,
that carves pi, in grey slices,
ever beyond our senses.

Press your fingers together tightly,
to crush the perfect form that defines the space between them.
Our perfect mathematics lights up God, here,
yet in reality it is beyond us;
a flicker of off and on, of not and there,
at the tiniest scales.
A flicker of nothingness and something,
like an anxious butterfly on an event horizon.

They say that in black holes the gap between the finite and infinite is so small...
perhaps there is no gap.
Perhaps God lives there,
unreachable, like everything beyond the horizon.