goloka

The weight of the world is held by a single light shining on the ceiling, pressing shadows across the textured heavens with a steady shining kiss. The sort of kiss that shines so bright it reveals the essence across each moment, a lesson from all that it is and the legions it is not. The shift among the realms, the moon pulling clout from the firmament and the reigning star, the roots in pursuit of the crown. This held breath, this cat warm lap, this moment spiraling out into the next. The weight of the moon lifted off our shoulders, so we soldier unto the ends of our worlds. Smoke from temples and crematory furnaces, flags unfurled for the stars.

Branches untangle and roofs reach for the ground below in worship. The clouds take turns holding her halo. The moon reaches through us, cuts through our bones and guts like ghosts, lifting eyes as well as the whole damn ocean. Here I go, tangled in her tresses, helping myself to seconds. Shaving a little shine from the glory and a few more minutes off the clock. The songs of ancient orders singing in my blood. The journey of the world around the world, enough times so it can wrap its mind around it.

Here, there’s another train whistle. Here, the smoke unfurls above the ruins. The moon’s out there somewhere gathering thrall and enchantments. The moon’s up there somewhere fiddling with the gears. This is the rigor of the open stance. This is the prize of little consolation. Another moon, another night, another stumbling through the words. I think of them, I think of you. I think of all that I would do. The offering and the altar, and the placement of each prayer. Smoke in the corner, the remembrance of no one there.