I suspect I must still exist, though the lights are out and no one is really looking.
This wasn’t always the way. Under your beam I was white; blue like the sky, green like an innocent. I learned to burn of my own accord.
We were spoiled by an abundance of choice. With curious eye to the sky (and bolstered by native adventurous spirit), we set sail for other worlds. To dip a toe in the liquid blue, to tread upon an arc of light just to say we did it. To puncture the boundaries of the World.
Though now, to my dismay – solitary in that overview – I find the stars have shifted place in the sky; indeed, when feet have left the firmament, there is no “sky” at all.
I’ve shifted red in my head, my Dear.
And I am angry.
Angry at Times, and how they change, and frightened at the spread of All Things. And I fear I shall go out like a candle -
An idea in the dark,
A flame without a wick,
The illusion of a star arcing its way across a sea of Time, long after the furnace that forged it has collapsed upon itself and vanished into the Infinite of Infinites, beyond the veil of that silent unconscious sentinel whose face is like the dark side of the Moon.
It’s a folly of our species to presume there will always be eyes to see, or heart to hear, waiting at the end of that journey; after all, the Universe is impartial, and doesn’t give a damn about that particular facet of reality we call “fairness.”
But I do. And so I suppose it’s up to us to behave fairly. For myself, I never now take it for granted when I peer into the cracks, and find someone, or something, is looking back.
Today, however, all thoughts of kind eyes are snuffed, and I find myself dormant in the Void. Even the red is bled out of phase, as anger is also always a trick of the light; and there is nothing, nothing visible, adrift here at the End of All Being and Ideal Grace.
Only a blue marble in my pocket – a whole world in miniature under the scope.
O how I long to see those skies from the inside out! –
To allow your particular haze
To color my eyes
With the vision of the Divine;
And to think I used to fault the horizon for being a sham.
We are all of us spoiled by choice. But I for one am tired of whoring myself after that swiftly slipping line, when instead we could be sitting under a clear and sunny sky.
Once upon Time,
My Love, My Darling
(And I can still find dim outline, if I screw up the glass just right):
I liked myself when I was with you.