He wants to
number the stars
like he
doesn’t know they are only fleeting nebulae of gases
and he wants
to throw stones at them
like he
doesn’t know the blackness contained in them
Silly man, I
run my fingers through his hair
Don’t you
want to grow up?
Or maybe
become a spaceman?
I do not want
the silence conjuring
and he
strikes just at the rocket moment
The universe is a giant pomegranate
and the
stars its nibble seeds-
juicy red,
moist, delicious
Don’t you
want to be a child?
Or maybe a fruit masher or juice maker?
6 comments:
Maybe I just want to see them from beyond any curtains. And just talk to them, in silence.
Very nice.
Why, the urge to see them through a glass-case is only ephemeral. After visiting the fruit market, we let ourselves feel welcome to the lewd stare of black-holes. I, for myself, see a serpent nibble at the seam of an old, old star, much like the wobbling cherry of a cricket ball!
As simple as a girl who wishes the love of her life to grow up getting the meaning of life, which can only be experienced being a child.
The universe may actually be a giant fruit and there may not be any black holes but only a desire to mash the fruit and letting its succulent juice flow all over.
Growing up to be a child is intricate. That experience is hidden inside the forests of the night. From the burning brightness of a Tyger (Blake preferred this spelling), to the child whose hands felt like two balloons-- the journey continues. Moving lips often wonder at the fruitlessness of words, even the numbers don't make us safe anymore. In the middle of an apocalyptic storm, we knock at the wee, small door of the ones we are in love with, to share, to stay together, at the day of judgement.
Succulent juice of a giant fruit may very well banish you from the kingdom of heaven. But what fun it is to be on your own, really! :-D
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