In the vast shadow of a garden he was on his back questioning the moon and stars. It took more than the strategic leap of an astronaut’s faith to reach the blackness. The luminous net of clouds would be too soft and forgiving to stop or catch his fall. He had to first escape the wrenching grip of his body – arms, legs, head – restrained by the centrifugal swirls and tug of the cosmic whirlpool. His standing was an effort requiring will, an acquired skill, to artfully command the sailing winds with his passionate hands. Head spinning like carnival wisps of cotton candy lifting off to be whipped and reformed into orbit. Fingers extended, probing space, tendrils snaking through the tall grass rooted in cold sand. His clenched memory eroding into bits and slipping away in fistfuls. He shut his eyes with the thought to never wake but awoke to a passing light – a light he had come to be.
Excerpt from Light-Years in the Dark: StoryPoems (see more)
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