Mystic Hour
©January 12th, 2017
By Vijaya Sundaram
Midnight is the mystic hour
When the weight of the world
Falls away, and only spirits
Dance along the edges of my vision.
I look away, because to stare
Would be rude:
I might scare them off.
To them, I am human, woman,
But to me, I am neither – I am
Thought-essence held together by purpose.
I am a sense of wonder cradled by a body.
My body impedes and annoys me,
And yet I love it so, I do!
Flesh and bone, and tendons and skin,
Corpuscles travelling tirelessly,
Neurons carrying mysterious messages,
Brown skin, grey-dark hair,
Dark eyes travelling inward,
Lines appearing on my face, my hands –
A map of the history of my world –
I love it all, and trace my journey
Through time, through my life,
And rejoice at having lived it.
And then, I see the spirits
Dancing along the edges
Of my vision, on the fence
Between here and there,
And I long to cast off my body,
Like a garment that’s fraying,
And don the air around me,
And dance with them.
Starlight limns them in silver, while
I sit under borrowed sunlight.
I glance at them, shyly,
And they, at me.
We hesitate, clear our throats,
Then, look away.
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