There’s a picture emerging from the shards,
tightly bound between the framework of my memories,
and the visions that lie beneath the pit.
And I think it was my daughter,
swinging her arms about in a fashion
good enough to take flight.
From that pit, where the shit lies.
I wonder what she’d say if she could speak.
If she’d ask me why I built this place,
or ask to live in it.
I’d ask her why her bones look like dust,
and why she flies at an angle.
As if, to avoid the bigger questions. As if, afraid of the supernova ahead.
And then I realise,
she’s welcoming the chaos.
That’s when I learned the pit
is made of stardust too.
And there’s nothing ahead of me
that could break it.