Make good with your ghosts.
Dance the illumination
with the archer and his flaming arrow,
aimed straight for the heart
of everything that glows.
The cosmic trickster
laughs as her blood
hits the concrete,
painting the unsung map
on sidewalks of lifetimes
stretched across galaxies.
Webs of light hold hands
with black holes,
golden robes draped
on the backs of the ancients
who call you in.
Once spinning in
mechanical precision,
you find the guts
to tilt out of orbit.
You are not the cardboard cut out
of the “worst thing you ever did.”
Your silhouette extends infinitely,
your flesh the expression
of the desire to
stand your ground in mid air
and finally jump.

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