Poetry

Step 8 (68.)

Phase shift, plane hop, some might call it a jaunt,
it feels like dissolving into a thousand globby pieces
and falling through a mesh floor.
We have sifted down through a liminal separator,
the somnambulist and me,
yet I feel no discomfort from my silent companion.
The sludge we become is perfect for clinging to dirt,
and the earth we pick up along the way
to where-ever we are going
is a welcome reminder of our miraculous galactic origins.
Soil, air, water, we think not of these necessities
most days,
but through our sludgy film I see
the systems that keep our star-flecked containers
afloat and shipshape.
Our bodies, once confined, corporeal,
are stretching to the ethereal,
as we descend into this surreal portrait of dirt and fire.
Small crystal spires jut at impossible angles
into spaces that seem full to bursting with organic matter,
and the steady patter of magma drips
keeps time where eons pass in seconds.
What we once perceived as graves
is a paradise, teeming with cycles and lives,
every size of organism swimming in the elements
that frolic beneath the ground.
These beings make no sounds, yet if they did,
we are sure they would be
humming and singing a rather jaunty tune.

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