the moon tonight is an anachronism
(I needed to crystallise some concepts, and this was as good a method as any.)
the moon tonight is an anachronism
and dusk is a blue slap in the face that rises like honey,
lingers outside time and gravity, then falls --
falls like foam on a wave crest breaking --
twilight breaking (almost audibly)
into dark cream skies and fragile charcoal clouds.
half a soul leaves the earth at the speed of light
and returns in the blink of an eye;
meanwhile, its twin has wasted away
in photographs, in gossamer light,
in tidal waves and moon's dominion.
the moon: too large, too yellow, antique and faded
and older than the cities and the trees
and older than the skies around it
and older than the limning light;
an age profound and genteel.
parallax: all things change, with speed.
one century on either side and I would be grounded;
somehow I have been misplaced in space,
in this continuum of space and time together.
"in the future we will travel in time"
that was my time and I have travelled and now --
now I can't get back.
in the future there is a hotel like a knife-edge
and we're dancing in rooms like shells
and laughing like rockstars
and shining like similes.
the moon is anorexic and worn thin with time,
a wasting disease which we name
ana: to starve.
chronism: the time.
I have travelled,
tick tock tick tock and the timepiece says:
I will travel,
I am drawn towards all bodies larger than myself.
at the speed of light will I leave my century
(I have left my century)
and return before I have been born.
and dusk will rise like falling foam,
gravity's merciless negation
of our striving towards the paradox.
two centuries from now I will starve the clock until it spins
paper-thin and we will dance
chronic. wasted. still.