I once dreamt of being
as warm as the Sun,
a life granting star.
Daughter of
Light
and
Energy
my roots would be embedded
alongside earthworms and
the kind of family you find in sitcoms.
I tried, really, I tried
but the Sun and I
we burn out,
love escaping us like an
intoxicating gas
pushing time forward
setting the world aglow
drowning in our infinite
desires to fill voids.
How could you say no
to the face of a sunflower
or the face of a child
or the face of our fears
death, the ultimate nightfall?
When I woke to the world
a sprawling mess of chaos
with no rhyme or reason
to be offered.
When I realized that
sometimes shit just happens
and it's glorious and horrific,
terrible and fanciful.
When I learned I could not be
as endless as cotton candy sunrises.
I
laid my head
down to rest.
When I rose the world was new.
Strange.
Something shifted within and without.
I searched for my role model
and instead point.
"Look at the Moon, is she not inspiring tonight?"
And just like she
waxes
and
wanes
I find myself teasing those around me.
I was once told I reserve
pieces of my humanity,
that those gifts, when bestowed,
can be heavy,
How was it phrased...
Ah yes,
"The Stars can be found in the pieces
you reserve for yourself;
They're missing from the velvet blanket
you coat the world in."
I casted constellations.
Dippers, big and small.
Began wearing the weight
of Orion's belt,
howled a lonely, lovely cry for Lupus.
Ironically, not all light is created equal.
Sometimes the truest norths are shrouded
by man-made pollutants.
And just like she
waxes
and wanes
so do I.
I phase in and out of loving
loving me, loving you, loving
the space in between stillness
and the fear of not becoming enough.
I find solace in her rootless journey
from neither here nor there
but ever present, ever centered
ever the same and hidden
and most valuable to those
who choose her.
The light she casts provides
context to shadows and
romance to simplicity.
The energy emitted is understated,
wrapped in the skies finest pearls.
How ironic is it that when we
bask in her glow we dream of
elsewhere, nowhere, where
our hopes marry our insecurities?
I dream of yellows and oranges
but I woke to silver and midnight.
The gentle caress of moonbeams,
and humbling vastness of the Milky Way.
For what is life but
a series of perspectives?
