The following (piece of work) was excavated from Thierry’s mountain of notes.
Though clearly unfinished, it's beyond ready for the possibility of mass consumption through low-key publication.
Her voice should've been heard by now.

“Begin (to Unscramble) Being”

If you’re anything like me us,
then you like don’t mind when frames fuss
by ending up slightly crooked so often that (eventually) somebody {un}just{ly} decides to leave ‘em that way
[wait…
that didn’t “rhyme”{?}];
it signifies willful submission to myriad universal {im}balances—
id est, a treasure trove of infinite possibility
—afforded by the miracle-{up}rooting phantom
known in certain circles as none other
than gravity.
Is this no easier to read than the simplicity bleeding between the bean-stained lines of any elder’s prized deed?
(Would I [oh, you] even know?)
[Rest assured, not every point made may apply
(enough pressure)
before its implication{s} can be taken in stride,
before its impact earns a chance to collide,
before its memory finds the time to die,
before its echo
f
a
l
l
s
by the wayside.]
Is weight (not) as wildly weird as it is weirdly wild?
The way atoms seem to insist upon messing with mass,
depressing greatly 
many a hue 
of man en masse, 
inspiring every singled-out, fibrous 
strand of potential, 
organic might 
[a.k.a. {inner} strength],
every juiced-up, glowing shard 
of flexibly bequeathed light,
every single piece of heat-blasted sand [i.e. glass],
every mismatched mixup, 
every {interpret}{iter}-ation,
every new instance of an oddity,
every old version of a commodity,
every fresh example of currency,
every rotten sample of normalcy,
every (simple) math problem,
every (complex) spoken solution, 
every (complicated) written answer, 
every prismatic entity that draws its fire
from the closest star,
every nuclear display of brightness both near 
as well as far, 
every sliver of spatial awareness,
every fraction of visual impairment,
every gritty, grainy strand
in all the (godforsaken) land,
every gloriously orderly,
reliably sent, intently bent
foreground-overshadowing rainbow,
every last spectrum of color—
gravity has the stuff to make all these things
immovably {un}predictable,
as well as predictably moving.
Wouldn’t you I we know (it), though?
Shall we I you carry on, then?
Recollect and recall
when it starts hearts, clogs parts, and makes it hard (sometimes)
to catch a breath
[phew!]
as any blood-pumping drum relentlessly beats
itself to death,
remember who bogs/it it/bogs down
while anyone solo-travels (all) around,
and consider how it persuades oceans to flow,
then imagine where it coaxes muscles to go
before contemplating what it brings down in our young and takes up in your lungs
until pondering why it exhibits a propensity for shitting in/out sandwiches. [#yolo
Think about it too hard.
All of it.
Strain your {in}valuable noodle.
[You’re {not} thinking (about it) hard enough.]
Still.
Be—
[Reverse that, too.]
Besides the purest pull of primordial presence,
a.k.a. the gravity of existence
[there’s that (omnipresent, tilting) word again],
what’s the
ONE [plan B: WORN] force
which can cause vinyl to scratch?
What’s the solitary power that may affect the effectiveness of a mind
just itching to hatch?
At the moment, I know not which one of us forgot where we were going with (all/any of) this.
I’m sure there is a deeper meaning here;
however,
I am not sure [exactly] that it’s clear.
A pattern can only repeat after it first appears,
and the truth of any matter may spark explosions galore.
Facts are found in every fib, and therein lies the rubbery lore:
when any “body” hoards, we shall all have less of more—
there can be no two ways about it (anymore); 
therefore,
reassess the false necessity of obsessing
over haphazardly kept, foolishly swept,
ill-gotten scores.
The This Our world must be won.
For the span of “ever after”
there can be 
only one.
Greed oft-reveals itself 
as the ultimate, smoking gun.
And yet,
deep down,
anybody knows that
if one (of us) shares, then (we) all win.
When a pair of ends haven’t met
across the ongoing cycle of seasons over time
for any shrouded number of (many) clouded reasons,
occasionally devoid of a brazenly noisy rhyme,
they do tend to solidify their presence
before rewarding life’s persistence
while justifying mere existence
by highlighting our essence

out of the blue
[in a sense],

and rightly so.{..}