Through My Window
09/05/17 03:53
Through My Window
Through my window, the full moon ignites the black canvas.
Silver dollar orb shines brightly and floods my eyes to capacity,
Behold cherub beams that are musings from ancient peoples,
gazing in wonder at that mysterious sphere in the dark sky.
This medallion around the edge of night,
this rock in space that drives men mad,
this sneering mirror that creates havoc in the tides,
this smiling, hurtling, pock-marked diva
feels so close that you can touch its outer rim,
breathe in its dead, sensual scent.
There is no means of traveling to the past,
Time machines are creations of fiction.
Alternate universes don’t exist except in one’s mind.
One cannot unweave the fabric of history,
Unwind the threads that tie you to this life,
re-write the substance of your story.
Dennis Wayne Bressack
Woodstock, New York
January 22, 2016
Through my window, the full moon ignites the black canvas.
Silver dollar orb shines brightly and floods my eyes to capacity,
Behold cherub beams that are musings from ancient peoples,
gazing in wonder at that mysterious sphere in the dark sky.
This medallion around the edge of night,
this rock in space that drives men mad,
this sneering mirror that creates havoc in the tides,
this smiling, hurtling, pock-marked diva
feels so close that you can touch its outer rim,
breathe in its dead, sensual scent.
There is no means of traveling to the past,
Time machines are creations of fiction.
Alternate universes don’t exist except in one’s mind.
One cannot unweave the fabric of history,
Unwind the threads that tie you to this life,
re-write the substance of your story.
Dennis Wayne Bressack
Woodstock, New York
January 22, 2016