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.
Copyright © Virginia Betts | Year Posted 2021
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