Zenith
On top of the world bubble I stand,
a speck of upright consciousness
in a bag of dusty bones;
eyes spun on a 360 degree swivel
as shooting stars dart at every angle, direction
awry, across the swirling galaxy
spindling us on its whirly vortex;
dandling the planet on the weft
of its geometric polar loom
giddy in the measure of its majesty.
Astride a slippy wobble-ball
we pirouette, grapple and cling
as we midget-zap through degrees, seasons, cycles
deeming ourselves lordly godlings,
tool-wise entrepreneurs
with synapses, opposing thumbs, and blobs,
glimpses of something we have no name for.
So we busy ourselves with no-thing,
biding the time we don’t have.
For what, my dearlies?
A solo balancing act?
A conscious anomaly of singularity -
only found when let go of!
01/‘24