Star Lit

Cough.  So this is my attempt at something similar to poetry.  It actually turned out surprisingly long.  It's sort of like a cross between haiku and half a dozen other ways to say things.  But I think I'll call it "fool poetry."
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Stars sparkle gently in the cold dark winter of space, their gentle forms sometimes faint to the point of non-existence, sometimes bright as a shout of laughter.

Darkness spans the void between celestial points. Incalculable and cold, with promise strangely written upon its form. Beauty through darkness. And beyond, more small sharp points of blazing fire. Heaven from a distance, hell from up close.

Here we stand, upon our own point of incandescent light. A point that is faint as the faintest star, floating through darkness like a dignified sailing vessel of archaic design. Neither rope, nor sail, nor rudder in its form. A ship that wanders contentedly upon the eddies and swells of space, time, and gravity.

Here we are, standing upon a globe spinning faster than it has any right to be. A ship whose inner sanctions remain darkened, full of mystery, full of beauty, full of fear. That which is lighted seems as though perhaps too luxurious in scope for such a wanderer. And yet all that we poor sailors see is the need to complain.

Here we are, singular, solitary beings. Sailors upon a ship without rudder, and without sails. Less sailors, and more corked bottles, wandering upon the eddies and swells of space, time, and gravity. But not contentedly. Inside each bottle, kept dry from the ravages of time, sits a paper. Old, brown, and marked with black and gold ink.

Each bottle whispers silently in the darkened hull of the sinking ship, as the water gurgles softly around them. Corks yearning to be pulled, papers begging to be opened. To be read. For what is writing, if not read? Or a plea for help without a rescuer? Some bottles whisper silently louder than others, but their papers are eaten away by water. A message lost, ink seeping into nothingness.

Here are our souls. A little scrap of paper. For to be known is to be loved, and to be loved is to be known, and to be read is to live, and to live is to be read. But some corks are too tight, and will not be removed by this poor sailor, and some corks have been too weak, and let the water in. But here is a dry parchment. The text is tired and worn, but in a flourish that astonishes it flows across the paper, round and round, and up and down. Some is black ink, some is gold.

Darkness and light flow and surround, and no matter how fast you read, more text forms upon the bottom, ceaseless. A message whose inner sanctions remain darkened, full of mystery, full of beauty, full of fear. Fascination either overwhelms, or puts one farther away. But ever the paper calls in deep silence. Ever a plea, read me, know me, be me, love me. Some hands crumple paper, and drop them into the waters to shred, stories lost. Some hands cherish. Keep the papers and hold them. Read them, know them, be them, love them.

For I can think of no better way to be than that of a reading sailor upon a ship that wanders in darkness and light and joy and death.

Stars sparkle gently in the cold dark winter of space, their gentle forms sometimes faint to the point of non-existence, sometimes bright as a shout of laughter, flowing round the ghost outline of a ship.

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