A tale of premature
births and phenomena:
of brick-red light
in the flurrying night,
and miracle babies
encased in white-noise
machinery.

-

The first lights
are always the brightest:
A lunar entrapment
greets newborn cries
in the (ampi)theatre;
appliance-white
audiences sound alarms
of appreciation for
twitching limbs,
and the erratic beats
brought forth (far too early)
to this planetary
stage of enchantment.

Six weeks short
would turn to more
than six feet tall,
and with life-flashing
mental movies my
plot-circles revolve,
exposing galactic
mysteries with
a grim resolve
And it goes a little
something like this:

A Sun, our Earth
and the Moon align
in parallel simplicity;
a geometric anomoly
that casts dark lines
across the spans
of space and time.

-

At zero-zero zero-one,
I was born
into a lunar snowstorm,
grey eyes reflecting
solar propagation
of my future final
destination:
A lifetime
of stellar fascinaton
isn’t even the iceberg-tip
of my inter-planetary
subconscious recollection.

But that’s another story.
For now,
The future awaits
with habitat-limbs
and propulsive
words of
encouragement,
a science-fiction
extravaganza
played out and again
behind my eyes.

And before them,
the future
awaits.