The mountains were a black mass at the edge of vision, incongruous and shifting. As my eyes crawled up, the sky blossomed with the fire of a thousand stars. An infinite array, growing beyond the sky and touching deep inside, in some innominal ancient way. And for every point of light, there were a thousand ephemeral, disappearing as I searched for them. This was the beauty of isolation.
Memories rushed past. Hopes, dreams, fantasies crowded in, until for every star there was a world. And it left me strangely longing. By the unimaginable vastness of this eternal reach, I was left starkly, and beautifully, alone.
And then the moment was ruined by the lights of oncoming cars, wiping away the vastness. The growing city lights overwhelmed the glowing after image, and only a memory remained.
YOU ARE READING
Writing Down Poetry in my Head
PoesiaThere are moments in my life, as I'm sure with many of you, where I feel the magnitude of everything around me and the weight of it bears down. This is just writing from those moments.
