Perched on the edge of perception –
Six concentric rings of water, ice,
And dust rotate.
To the untrained eye you appear
Frozen in time.
An ancient halo of steadfast
Proportions.
But in between the sheets of rock
And air your certainty is
Wavering.
There’s a push and a pull.
And like a thread of
Gossamer
Floating on a rippled lake,
You find yourself entangled
On the knotted rope of this cosmic
Tug of War;
Finley balanced on a razor’s edge
Between the fiery embrace of home
And the chilly valediction of
Empty space.
And so, you fight against the push,
You rage against the pull;
Carelessly crashing into the
Pockmarked corpses of your siblings
In a vain attempt to stem the tide.
Until suddenly –
A
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