Astral Projections in Blue


Am I mistaken to think a day overcast
Brings to light the truest of beams,
Cutting the vision of those soaring eagles,
Who no longer can hunt their prey,
As consciousness dawns upon them briefly?
A sun whose flaring nostrils exhale color onto the palette earth.
Whose unblemished hands, blessed hands that brush and stroke creation,
Are halted still by a singular cloud.
A cloud whose vaults hold not more than air,
But air would I breathe till my lungs burst in passionate utterance.


Such clouds that shroud away my worldly canvas, that shun the spirits of humankin,
That hush the vast libraries of language incapable of expressing this looming eclipse.
And as the globe lay silent and dark,
I remain, held aloft by feet not my own,
Peering anxiously into the eyes of one who ties and laces me to such hallowed ground.
And within those eyes do I bear witness to a world ended, dead and reborn,
With no recourse toward mark'ed lands,
To seas charted only by intrigue.
I find you, most gracious cloud,
From whom suns shy away in petty fear.
From whom starry nights turn blank and blue,
As all the universe veils its pallid portrait.
But if, by murderous contempt, you should sneak below the curtsy of an oft horizon -
Where all nature's blood slips and falls,
Blending into that colorless light -
If by the muddied hands of fate you should not remain that vibrant vapor,
But in its stead be swallowed whole in sorrow incarnate,
A scourg'ed rain becomes you, and douses all hope that till now dressed me.
That modest day should end in flagrant storm,
I should be the last cooling dew upon the grass that buries me.

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