Strolling on sky, abruptly you fall, doubting, for an instant, indigo is solid
Down looks as if it’s vanishing, indisputably firm ground growing unfairly fast
You grasp at anything, catching only air in your fists—but you fall on skin
With a soothing draught of actuality, colossal hands brush your crumbling back
You would not want to touch painkilling giants, but voids hold agony
You must avoid this forlorn outlook—of nothing—blindingly full of dispassion
This world is not black, for dark holds possibility that clarity cannot allow
With all of its sunny, unclad crooks on display, God forbid shadows slink in unsought
Whilst all that is mandatory for this bliss is choosing
A flaming sun burning out in a solitary night, but living amazingly
Or a star, drawing inquiry from tiny, soft lips as a child drills gaps in cosmos.
Will you watch lazily as infinity drags on, finding you do not mind that caring
Drips out your wounds, gradually numbing you to taunting Nirvana?
Will you turn away from utopia if God allows you to sit,
Spiraling in purity you ran from back with human thoughts and knitting cuts?
Or will passion control your last hours? Will you forgo your solid grip on gravity
For hazardous proximity to a failing star—a craving for crisis your final undoing?
Days too long, or too hasty, no conclusion satisfying
But is that not our cost, for living?