Night Walk

12 04 2010

It is the witching hour

when wild magick fills the air and

night presses cloyingly close and

death feeds greedily on

the pregnant promise of life-to-be.

Abruptly the earth stopped

spinning, clouds pressed flat

like childish renderings

and I was Truman

crashed nose-first

into the wall of my

artificial reality

where everyone knows my (

name

secrets

trespasses

fiercest regrets

unrequited loves)

and I know

n   o   t   h   i   n   g.

The heavenly sphere spins

stars of the drinking gourd racing

in formation like blue angels

as God reaches down from the throne

to rewind this cuckoo-clock creation.

The first things to breathe are windchimes.

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One response

17 06 2012
. « Subbing for Eden

[…] the wind bears upon its back the memories of this moment, and though my feet have touched more foreign shores than thousands of my ancestors and my heart […]

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