“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Friday, September 30, 2016
Loch Smith
Before sunrise on this particular morning
I came to see-
quite unmistakably-
right in front of me
a gaping fallstreak hole
hanging wide open, saying high.
The cat and I,
our curiosity got the best of us
and I suppose
I teetered too close to the edges
which tend to be
slippery slopes of padded History-
also called Epiphanies-
and well,
I fell in or out of sorts,
tumbling through a tunnel
my vision blurred briefly-
white.
We can see-
the mountains lining the dappled plain,
the plane piercing the wall of clouds
intermittent keyholes
blink like red EXIT signs in bright blue blips
appearing further away than they seem-
And although it may all appear
as this lucid dream at dawn
-since the hole has long closed-
I was simply unable to resist peeking out,
fell up, skipped in and
if you've wondered where I have been
before the first light.
Photo By Kittelschürze (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons
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