The big bang

Someone plugged in the universe

and it swirled up and out and into a lustful and holy  mess

that scattered us all over before we slammed together

and then ricocheted

and burned and cooled.

Flame tendrils like fingers reaching;

Some held and gained weight

Other slipped away but left invisible heat

That circles back to slap us awake in wondering.


It all echoes, you know:

Cries and sighs

Babies in the night, silent graves;

Dark memories, the smiling, splashing days.

The anger of the forgotten and dispossessed.

All the words said and never said,

The sweetest kiss, the softest touch;

The saddest, hollow departure;

A heart left empty for no reason.


Oh, this explosion seems so orderly

And predisposed to ending,

Gravity weaker at the edges.

We run away, fold inside ourselves

And cement in the grief and love

and the laughter and smiles and tears

and eyes locked, fingers bound,

bodies entwined and bruised and

Wrap ourselves in some hard capsule

Awaiting the final screaming exit.


But, wait; it is  gravity still.

And after all the swirling and scattering

And denial and acceptance,

Something breaks free

Like a stone from billion miles away

To scratch across the diagram of never-touching circles

And creates its own weight;

As the unseen, forgotten dust coalesces

Into your face

And all the spinning and distance

Mean nothing.





About michaelstephendaigle

I have been writing most of my life. I am the author of the award-winning Frank Nagler Mystery series. "The Swamps of Jersey (2014); "A Game Called Dead" (2016) -- a Runner-Up in the 2016 Shelf Unbound Indie Author Contest; and "The Weight of Living" (2017) -- First Place winner for Mysteries in the Royal Dragonfly Book Awards Contest.
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