Just a Human, Finite Yet Fearless

Prose Poetry

Photo by gryffyn m on Unsplash

you have always been intrigued by them — these insects crawling on a plane removed from the threat of the otherworldly, the stink of rot clinging to their every move

you watch with something much like expectation — no, really, it cannot be that, can it? — as they collide in little bubbles that mean nothing in the grand scheme of the universe

you find yourself fascinated — curiosity is such a drug, even to the inhuman — and you linger on one or two at a time, as if their lives weren’t just a blink in the time of ethereality

you can catch stars in your palms and hurl them across the heavens — each one burns, just a little, before disappearing from the cosmos — but humans marvel at these little glimmers of magic made real

you might excite them, delight them, if you were able to be among their number — but you stand apart, much like a god up on high, even as you long for something akin to their silly ways and whims

you will never have their desires or their burdens — yet still you watch, amazed and pulled taut, all by the gleams of the fantastical that they will never once realize they have

I Take These Two Hands and Reach Towards the Horizon

The Poems That Didn’t Get Away