Tourist To the Sun

Tourist to the sun. Fired-up for take-off, wearing my asbestos suit, designed to deflect, I bring with me a cabin full of un-marked baggage for the hold. Wing walker without a rope, hurtling to the light fantastic, untethered. First to sign up to step off the map; where even the silvery surface is marked by dark spots; even the brightest star is already dead. With outstretched arms I surrender to the sun, glide, star-shaped, licked by flicking tongues of flame, into the white-hot core; white heat devouring sound, eclipsing time, searing conscience and annihilating thought. Not arrogance that brings me here, but fear. The elemental need to fly, unfettered, to pilot my own craft; to pierce reality, and seek the truth behind it, and, in seeking, half expect to find it. And thus, avoiding bird-strikes, negotiate safe water-landings when at last I am earthbound; within my hand, a brand to fire my piece of earth’s story when I return scorched and burned.