Floating

A poem

Photo by Ryan Holloway on Unsplash

While walking around noon,
I looked up and
the chalky silver half
moon in the sky grabbed me.
During the day, there’s a rock, floating,
not on earth,
but IN THE SKY.

Day is only perception; it means
nothing to the rock.
Outer space. And I’m walking,
thinking about the steps
and the journey;
behind the bristly green pine tree
I saw the floating moon.

Half of it was dark, camouflaged as sky;
I walked across the street and
looked at it.
Probably for two minutes.
And then went about

walking
and forgot.

It’s still up there, bright, now;
Under the moon
and the dying sun,
What might be out there?
Will Armageddon bring us together
to destroy an asteroid?
People dedicate their lives
to studying, exploring, space.
The empty blackness

floating outside the ship.

Drifting away,
something in the lack of air goes wrong, and you float.
Is there something like a cyanide pill
to take if that happens?
Are there jet packs on your shoes?

Shoutout to the wonderful writer, Geeta Anjali and her profoundly inspiring article:

There Are No Bad Meditations

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