The Impression of a Thousand Spirts

The gingerly impression of a thousand spirts

Each fluttering towards blue light

Pink and teal and daffodil yellow, spinning through light breeze

Shards of life aspiring

Spinning, gliding, spinning, gliding.

Scheherazade will keep us up tonight, again.

Aspiring to what?

We don’t want to be that shimmering

Never settled

Always gleaning

Shocks against our inherency

Bubbles percolating from who we came from

Our first communities, our first stands

We are not messages caught on tape.

Digitised, removed, and scattered at our feet,

gold and silver

quickly submerging into the mud, glow, descent,

mud;

that is all it is.

That is all they are and yet we crane our necks toward the light

A gingerly impression of a thousand spirits,

Ephemera, reflective steel and black glass, closed off, Schrödinger's cat.

Let’s dance on the grave; let’s stomp down on the birth.

Let’s grab a couple pieces of bread, some salami, and a few bottles of sparkling water and head up into the mountains, down to the sea.

Let’s look at the peaks and troughs, the green and the blue, and recognise our stage is wherever we place our feet.

Dorian LaGuardia
2022