trick: tie a golden thread
around your finger.
a reminder to burn the
beaten path. shy away from
starlight searchlights. do not
tell me what is written
in wispy cloud-script,
rickety constellations.
myself, i am the clean slate,
un-ancient, unchanging.
trick: dip your thread
in silver. it cannot
be cut. weave every loophole—
a reminder to lament about the
definite course, how we
can only dream to scrape the surface
of the universe, how we
are streaks of light hurtling
toward the pinprick horizon—
inconceivable, inescapable. we
are buried alive under circumstances the
second we are born, six feet of dirt
under our fingernails. the thread
never breaks. the dead rise like
phoenixes. from this moment on,
we are eternal. in other words,
be the promise you cannot keep.
evade starshine, imminent
dismay— shelter me like shadow.
fit your freedom in the
palm of the earth. rewrite
infinity. go where you are,
when you are. split the
summer stillness—tonight or
some other day, we’ll visit heaven
again.
Leo Cox is a poet and fiction writer who intends to pursue creative writing in college. He enjoys being a part of theatre, being a reader for Canvas Literary Journal, trying (and usually failing) to be deep, reading any genre, and most of all, striving to make the perfect cup of green tea. His work has previously appeared in Cricket Magazine, Canvas Literary Journal, and The Apprentice Writer.