Inverted Prism of Consciousness

Brush with Horizons<br/> <br/> Scientists daydream of higher dimensions—<br/> Some find these visions exceedingly bright<br/> I fall for something not half as pretentious—<br/> Thrill of untethered free blind flight<br/> <br/> I crave not snowstorm bursting from cloud<br/> Nor dread thick fog that sneaks up on the sly—<br/> But flight over water where stars on the ground<br/> Brightly reflect limpid stars of the sky<br/> <br/> Thin razor blade of far murky horizon<br/> Lost in profusion of stalled fireflies<br/> May be diagonal may be up-rising<br/> May be redundant for all that implies<br/> <br/> Stars whirling round in dark midnight's embraces—<br/> Am starkly airborne swept with delight<br/> What end awaits me—breaking the surface<br/> Grasping the void or awaking in fright?<br/> <br/> All these don't matter in moment's delusion<br/> But for a feeling—like faint distant scream<br/> That when they find me my wrists will be oozing—<br/> Torn on sharp edges of prodigal dream</br>