Backpack

I want to descend into the crystalline structures of my dreams,

Parachuting from the plane of these lofty ambitions and fall

Into a netherworld of glitter and glass that cuts like a jewel

And hungers like a medieval beast for the essence in my blood.

.

There are monsters in my desires, ones that move only to the

Pounding rhythm of the endless hunt for eternal starlight.

The cosmos bred my soul so long ago I can remember only

The ash of the dreamer's death as it was scattered on the wind.

.

I am raising the offspring of the galaxy's lapse in sanity.

And what, I wonder, am I teaching it on this swan dive,

This great look before leaping where nothing exists but a

Metaphorical parachute strapped to my back that I call luck.

.

Why am I teaching the universe about something so fickle?

Do the stars need to know how chase an invisible monster?

Should they know the true face of the shifting odds?

The creature of probability hunts its vendettas to death.

.

The Odds and the Universe have never met and yet they will

Gather around my corpse as it sinks into earth, hands in pockets,

Eyes on each other, bellies rotting with the too-sweet knowledge

That they are lovers through the transitive property.