From the Pocket of a Dream
Who are we, she asked,
taking another step.
with the golden dust under our feet?
with questions sent through the water of void?
Children of Why, legatees of How…
Creeping, rising, crossing the clouds of shards
that cut deep, never leaving the flesh.
Who are we, standing here at the cliff
with no wings but the wind toward our back?
And how long this flight will last
before the fall would welcome us
to its dark bosom of Never?
Who are we, she asked.
Yet, she knew.
She never really bothered
to stay for the answer.
© Eclipse 2013