I want to dream in satellites,
in technicolor echoes of
antennas quiet pulse of flight,
with superphonic clouds above.
We heard you standing still aboard
cathedrals of temporal tribes,
but that for which there is no word,
not strength, nor sense, nor skill describes.
So speak to me of gravity,
in fermionic quantum spins.
That geodesic alchemy
arrests like quiet, playful grins.
I'll trace elliptic curves beyond
your phosphorescent, glowing crown.
To which you tenderly respond,
"It's people all the way around."
In our beginning was the word,
along this path of lantern song,
detritus bright and seldom heard,
for not all darknesses are long.
A prayer to my pilgrim clan
that may be clear by now to some:
You lose that which you cling to, and
you keep what you become.
Written by Danne Stayskal on 2017-01-20