Losing It

What seemed to be an infinite orange horizon with you

It was only the last cup of orange juice draining in the archaic eaves of Great-grandmother’s attic

Which I didn’t know was the last time

I would taste inspiration with my waffles.

What sounded like a chorus of Paradise birds on a Mozart Fermata

Was only an echo in the empty skull of Paganini’s mistress

Which cracked upon my spinal trail like a meteor to end the naive ambitions of evolution,

To assert the explosion of a star where white light was meant to worm its way into words down below, but now there is only a frozen moon, a bastard of gravity, denied the right to orbit

And so I wander through this darkness, all the more striking in its intricate beauty

I can see everything but nothing at all

Destiny trembles in my hands

And crumbles, puddles beneath my feet, slithers to the center of the earth without a sound.

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Image credit: http://siberiantimes.com/science/casestudy/features/f0054-scientists-recreate-ancient-siberian-brain-surgery-techniques-for-first-time/

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