Elevator to the Moon

 

Oh, let the rain come down and kiss my vapid soul.  I need some of that moistened Pacific Northwest Banana slug breath to reinvigorate my slow beating heart.  My sleeve was caught on the banister of the elevator to the moon and I had to run in place while several sun-kissed children of the plains passed me by.  Giggling they pointed at my pool of sorrows and watched as I struggled to keep pace with the fastidious rate of the mechanical up-lifter.  I was festooned in perpetual motion.  Awash with a kind sanity unbeknownst to mere observers.  And I saw the streaking stars that kissed the night’s sky die in infamy and recalcitrance.  Snuffed out like the tip of Prometheus hand rolled by an indignant outcast.  Birth on arrival.  Death on delivery.  Disappointment upon opening.  Satisfaction within ignorance.  Useful terror worn by the children’s crusade of loving echoes that leads to the galley of slaves.  Mere progression was not enough to save her.  I clung to the wall admiring the graceful pattern formed by the rope swaying between my legs, held in place by the gentle yet firm carabiners of life saving steel.  Entranced with the way the rock swooped out from the ground and met me where I was, frozen in amber, a snapshot of this moment, caught reading the language of this behemoth inviting me to dance with her.