The stars are immutable, unmoving, moored in their final resting place.
But they are alive, lit from within, holding a million other mysteries.
I have touched the surface of the moon tethered to a looking glass.
Its valleys and fault lines are real, its pockmark scarring its perfect sphere.
I looked at its dark side and saw nothing; but I sense that something is there.
Something veiled, and something I am not meant to see.
Because we are all initiates; those who ‘need not know’.
And yet they call to us. Oddly, then more than now.
When lights were faded and dreams were conceived during star-lit nights. When man did nothing but to contemplate his nothingness in the face of an enormous void.
Now we distract ourselves with our pursuits and our baubles of dreams.
Dreams that visit us. Dreams that forget us.
Until we tire of our toil and are called to rest.
Until the next day comes and we are forgiven.
And the ambrosia touches our lips, and life claims us as its captive once again.
But the moon and the stars stand transfixed, unseen.
Weaving their powerful magic.
With their alliterations, alterations, reminiscences, remembrances.
Beckoning to us – look back, look deeply.