Sky, falling
In the eaves of the ceiling above my bed a hole is becoming. A web in negative spinning itself. We’re done with spiders; there’s only me here and scuttling matter. Cracks fork out in the plaster like lightening, a spiral of emptiness, pressing the air into sheets and pushing. The outside is trying to bore through my casing and let itself in. It will win, no question. Its there in the pattern: white split by black into segments, spokes of a wheel which will roll down into me, whether I choose it or not. It will move. It will move me. It grows, a rose window. Blooming, it makes this up-turned ship of a room, a cathedral. It widens like an eye to the sky. It cries build your telescope now and be ready. The stars are weighty. The planets grow heavy. This attics the skull of your wood and slate body. This hole is your mind’s observatory. Allowing it scope is affording enlightenment. Space will drain in as water drawn into a plughole, your soul will swell like a seed in the rain, fat with potential. Think how the spheres will peer in as you sleep, and your dreams, so human and small will meet their cold beams as they fall and enlarge in their light fields to something immeasurable. It’s almost inevitable. All it requires is time and the courage to give in to gravity, strength to do nothing. Look! Even now the lid opens. Lie back, and watch the sky falling.