by Erik Borda
Summits and dips, peaks and valleys,
the horizon winks, my feet alight.
I beat each step, an echo rallies
loyal creatures of the night:
a pleasant start, for perfect stars.
Truly, my compass came broken,
untethered from its righteous thread,
the face, a gray and helpless token,
its needle, teeters gently dead:
I make a poor astronomer.
Yet soles lie flat, as visions track
the skies, impatiences in vain,
unfurling fabric of richest black
atop the Earthen plane:
we’re but low stones in a vast bowl.
Not a one of us has seen a star born,
naught but the bed and the seas they adorned
fore they left us their firmament.
All free things play on the face of their reign,
hot with live hope that Auriga should deign
to prod time forth an increment.
Save for the wicked, who walk in disguise,
who nourish deceit with star-darkened eyes,
for them, waits a just punishment.
Cry not for the cruel, tonight we are blessed,
soft beacons of light heed Earthly requests
to smooth hearts worn with detriment.
Perhaps, the stars made themselves for our needs,
Cassiopeia, bravely she leads
our lost ships to her embankment.
Or perhaps, just perhaps, they're a pretty accident.
There’s a wistfulness I take,
when I look Ganymede in the face,
that starshine glows forever
but devotees fade.
That as I look yonder, past suffering untold,
the tides will yawn long,
the stars will burn cold.
That justice grows fat on the harvest moon's plenty,
a friend to a few, a foe to many,
that fairness became a toy to adopt,
a necklace, a compass, a gold pocket watch.
That for want of a filament,
I'm made your embarrassment.
With every tenet I decline,
the horizon becomes a finish line,
at last, the final stretch I see.
So rest easy, my intimate,
my discarded, loyal instrument,
I care not who we’re meant to be.