Falling, like the Draconids.

Quickly,

then burning out before they really mature.

Before they see the world

for what it truly is.

When to say, “I surrender”?

Should you surrender?

For your craft—

Will I owe it to her?

The young one with big eyes

And virtually no idea of why anything has come to be?

They’re too fast, those meteors,

caring not for how the world turns.

Which direction, how slowly.

It’s all the same in Death’s pale eye, a cold October,

when he comes to collect your pride,

and all you’re left with is flesh and bone.

For he takes the soul as well, of course,

and there are no more dreams.

There is no fall back.

Simply hope—to catch yourself

in the dragonfly’s way when he finds a landing.

But Death has not taken my gift yet,

no, not yet.

And I am prideful.

Beyond belief.

Snuffing my desire, my flame,

blinding me,

thieving of my last breath is not what it takes

for me to see the light.

 

In this way,

should the moon be unattainable, then you shall fall upon a star.

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— A.M. Sención

12.2024