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.
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