Up, Down

Up, down,

swirling around.

Acidic clouds made of tears

are hugging an empty volcano

that's breathing in their sadness,

depositing faceless guilt into the crust.

A shy whale opens its mouth

and gobbles the entire sky,

the mountain but a pebble

now forever lost in the ocean;

what of those tears?

Up, down,

where is the ground?

From the deep you can barely see it;

swimming up like a bullet

with furious and anxious longing

for a carpet and a stool.

And then the surface shatters

and scatters into a billion pieces,

each a distant lonely star.

And you're just floating there

above the dying planet

you so gracefully broke in half.

Up, down,

forgetting to count.

Is it the eighth or the tenth?

And why are still not fully sleeping?

The images keep flooding uncontrollably

as this fervent dance is taking place

behind your anchored eyelids,

so intense you can almost whisper its melody

to anyone close enough to hear.

And the stars become candles,

and the wax melts into mounts of salt

that rain upon you in punishment

for the world you destroyed.

You disappear;

as a scrawny old lady is closing a tiny box

over everything that's there.

Up, down,

maybe this time around.