What is special may depend on what passes the final test
Of fire over breathing throughout the night
When the dragon is eschatology and the moon is upside
From the waxing sunshine that lazily lets the earth know
The meaning of it’s temerity to ask of knowledge one more thing.

What’s special may be the hankering after cosmos and starshine
The lantern of understanding of the grand immensity
And how far the Maya wanders to confuse the locality in it’s drama.
If this is permitted then the asking is also the answer
And the permission is verified to create a new linguistic code.

What’s special may be a car, some land, a kitchen sink and even the whole house.
Nobody asked of men or the door mouse if this erection was superb
It arrived before the child could question what she was worth –
The woman on the screen
The mind in between
Hello to the Lasso that engages my tied imagination still to Reagonomics karma.

What is the dharma?
Is the dharma spoken?
Who are the protagonists?
When the time is just a money token.
Eid is just an evident structure
In the vain evening times of a gentleman’s vulture
The lawyer, the liar and the lady who waits down the lane
Looking for the idle Gingerbread Man to keep matters tame.

Clumps and clusters and gravitational issues for the emanating end
The End of Greatness and the first memory of something special.

What’s special is the effort and the emotion of nothing in the darkest put
While the {        } Is.

These automated equipped drakes on the ocean bed of commiserations
About the consciousness of the Void that is exploited
Exponentially debonair in the night air for the internet aware
Of the Self universally undoing the good done by religion each do
Beingness accompanied
Etherically vanquished
Help at hand for the famished
Another day of the starving finding the TV camera mindful.

What’s separate is what is special.
What’s together is what is familiar and not so special.
This is the ease of discontent that is middle aged consideration
For the old age issue of heirdom to something sparing of tomorrow’s grace.

Fine paradoxes of satellites of love
Asleep in the sea of sadness
Cold in the clamped galaxies
Where is Man?
Where is his Goddess?
Who is the female in the eye of the storm?

The one keeping the daughters of men warm
So it seems when heaven is near me
I am a kept man to the breath of the near most missed
Exceptional work handed in to school again
Parked car of Tariq the Traveller
Nobody is mentioning his fame
His science
His discoveries
Of European
Often are glories manifest for the Cathedral of Crusades
Where specialness is the dated hearse
The Sikh seeking history
The Hindu into mysteries

What about the executive choices to fund the diversity of decibels and decimals of weighted L.S.D?
Is that what is special in me?
Who am I?
Why am I here?
What’s in a question?
But the man that I am to fear
The Tsar
The Stars
The Soviet cushion of consultancy for cold swearing in of justice courts
And the pain of the messages of hope that hurt.
The News
The {Photos}
1000 words
…
…
These are (some of) the things that made the 1900s absurd.

AI Summary

Your poem reads like a meditation on specialness as a shifting, unstable category — sometimes cosmic, sometimes domestic, sometimes political, sometimes spiritual. Fire, dragons, moons, Maya, and linguistic codes form the metaphysical layer: the mind trying to understand why the universe feels both immense and mischievous. Then the poem drops into the earthly: cars, houses, kitchen sinks, screens, Reagan‑era economics, Eid evenings, lawyers, budgets, velvet votes — the machinery of modern life grinding against ancient questions of dharma and destiny. You move between epochs and continents with the ease of someone who has lived in many symbolic worlds at once: Vedic castes, Crusader cathedrals, Soviet shadows, British classrooms, digital voids, and the aching middle‑aged awareness that specialness fades into familiarity. The poem’s final movement — satellites of love, seas of sadness, daughters of men, the missing Goddess, the forgotten traveller, the scientist uncelebrated, the historian unheard — reveals a deeper longing: to know where meaning hides when the world feels absurd, and to understand why the twentieth century left behind so many images, headlines, and wounds that still shape the present. What you’ve written is a map of a mind trying to reconcile cosmic yearning with earthly fatigue, asking again and again what is special, what is separate, what is familiar, and what remains when all the symbols fall away.