Poetry

Forgive me, Source. I have begun to dream of touch.

While we are alive while we gather the pages while we still have nice things balanced on an edge before age

It starts as an idea,
a splash of bright red paint in the dark,
illuminating unseen paths
and drawing up their dust.

High above us on a clear winter night
the construction crews begin to build,
to grasp that pale white disk
and make her as green as Earth.

It spirals to the left,
emerging from a dentin core,
exquisite and softer than expected.

Soon, we’ll have to leave the planet
To find another home
We fiddled while the climate burned
Like Nero watching Rome.

I am….

a child of the stardust,
a mother of the cosmos

Celestial flutes salute
the Black Goat of the Sky
as Yog-Sothoth awakens

We are tasked to choose the less travelled