Home Without Walls

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 8/12/07, Ananda Loka 3, India

It’s been up there, the sky, all this time, the epitome
Of “away”, a drapery, translucent,
Alive, in chameleon splendor, making the day
Blue, the night bluer, the hours pink or golden,
Red or silver, saying unearthly things
About Gods we have never, will never see,
Its cloud faces and cloud bodies evolving just
Beyond the ability of our senses or our fancies
To coagulate into being. We love it “up there”,
Changing, mysterious, ever-clinging, distant,
Large. But it has never been ours. It has
Never been womb and maw as it is for
These alien murmurers , these bizarre aerialists:
The fly, the gnat, the mosquito, these grotesqueries
With jewels for eyes and skeletons for limbs,
Abuzz amidst papery diaphanes of wings,
Iridescent weirdnesses sucking blood
Or sap and transmuting it into some kind
Of viscous honeyfied ichor, the meat
For that unseen, unseeable God of emptiness,
The Great Lord Blank, who feeds
And feeds on these tiny, ubiquitous monsters,
These billions of sentient swarmers freer than air.

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