Nocturne In Black and Gold the Falling Rocket By James Mcneill Whistler 1875

eclipsed by a daydream where stars are strung on single strands of spider's webs invisible to the eye as the brightness of the sun sears the retina but not the soul the mist mingles with the drizzle all burnt sand turns to glass creating a new lens on the out of focus space as my fingers tap out a melody on the wet bough the wind descends to sweep the stage of debris and dull the noise of the spectators a fractured spotlight hollows out tunnels through time only a loose thread from my gossamer gown tethers me lest I be lost to the ethereal plane