by Tehya Sky
The well of which I am, in which I find myself in gorgeous apocalyptic swim is neither here nor there, is the conglomerate of ether this, ether that, of a cosmos of feelings, of questions, of the moment mystery is relinquished, this well is swirling madness. Savagely creative, deeply mirrored specks found through so many eyes and when love burgeons, as it always does, and Pluto starts to shake, vibrates and rattles like the rattle of the heart, when the reflection of this seraphic, savory chaos becomes impossible to see, and this unknowing does its Radio City tralalala dance from head to toe, ruffles its wings, kicks up its legs, the dance takes over. And blindness lifts its violin. The inability to see anything, to know anything play their supple chords, and the only place to rest is upon the great breast of mystery herself, the obliteration of starry midnight therein, within her endless protean givings and rich river milk, you are carried through her warm bath, and Pluto shakes, and you are no more. All that remains is you as the shifting symphonic of the stars and the milk, of the earth and this grand, rapid fire, exploding and unfolding one breath at a time. The gift of travel, it is the gift of being. And Pluto shakes. This rattle of the heart, its illusory handle, the moment you take grip, it turns to dust. And you are so cloaked in mystery, your very shroud is a constellation of stars. And your sweat. And your kiss. And Pluto shakes, and you are no more.