The infinite is no longer
Than a slice of sky that slipped,
Stealthy, behind the apple of your eye.
The universe gifted me with insignificance,
And no matter how grateful she made me,
I still wanted to peer into your navel.
When wind slaps wet palms against pages
And tempos twist tear drops, triptychs, and timing belts
Into some semblance of meaning,
Our well-to-do knowledge cracks the sky-songs like death knells
Across spirits so drowned in blood and sweat and sobs
That we have forgotten those sublime paean mysteries.
Still, I was born a starchild,
Adrift in the wide void, that place where
Dark matter breathes away from itself, forcing expanses
To collide with the All.
My eye was a mote, a piece of flotsam,
And I drifted from singularity to supernova and
Vacillated upon that great, glowing piano wire
As this reality played vast, symphonic melodies.
But my phase fluctuated down to a wormhole,
And passing through that immutable fear vortex opened the cosmos.
I discovered that depth, the emptiness that always accompanies true being.
I stood still and smiling as the world flexed around me.
Now I am the unchained mistress of destiny.
Now I am the blessed mother of the universe.
Now I am the enraptured daughter of so much star stuff.
My reality shines golden through multiple ethers.
I stand resolute and ready to simply be me — to be.
Yes. Possibility.
