An Epiphany Dawns
The clockwork orange sun dissolves,
dripping liquid neon onto the velvet, sleeping sea,
a bird with glass wings cracks the silence
and sings in binary.
The air tastes like yesterday’s forgotten promises,
thick, cold, and smelling of ozone and pine.
I am standing inside my own ribcage,
watching the sky turn from bruised violet to waking rhyme.
A tree walks backward toward the horizon:
Its leaves are made of mirrors, reflecting not the light,
but the secret, folded shape of a thought
I had just before the breaking of the light.
The shadows are melting into upside-down puddles:
Gravity forgets its name and drifts away.
In this split second, I see the thread
connecting the midnight scream to the dawn’s display.
I am not waking up—I am waking down,
into the roots of the air, the marrow of the dream,
where the truth is a fish leaping into the air:
Becoming a bird, becoming the stream.
The world is made of paper and shadow,
I tear it open and walk into the sun.
Epiphany has no face, only a roaring light,
where everything is lost, and everything is won.
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