Mammatocumulus clouds, Iraq: photo by Mbga9pgf, 2007
In my youth I thought I possessed a magic touch.
Now, though I can't feel anything, the grey bulbous numbness of the sky makes me oddly uncomfortable.
Sometimes in the the heavens I see endless beaches swelling with white nations of joy. A great golden ship high above me flies its multicolored flags upon the morning sky.
I've created celebrations, dramas, festivals; new flowers, new stars, new tongues and new kinds of bodily tissue.
I called myself magician and angel, exempt from all the rules of common sense. I thought I'd acquired supernatural powers.
Instead here I am back on the ground, with work to do, and a shriveled reality to embrace.
Was I an idiot?'
Did charity, upon her visitation to me, switch identities with the sister of death?
Now, for having swallowed lies, I beg forgiveness. Let things go at that.
Yet no friend extends a hand. Without it, how can I go on?
"Quelquefois je vois au ciel des plages sans fin...": Adieu, from Une Saison en Enfer: Arthur Rimbaud, 1873
Arthur Rimbaud: Félix Valloton, c. 1878 (from Remy de Gourmont: Le Livre des Masques (Vol. II, 1898)