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Feet of Giants

The world is a magnificent museum, 

and Time is its curator. 

Every person, 

every creature, 

is a temporary, living exhibit, 

born of wax and earth, 

animated by lungs and  

(sometimes) 

a heart. 

 

The sky is grey today, 

cumulonimbus clouds crouching close to Earth 

and flooding the air with wind and rain, 

closing for a moment the gap that  

separates mortals  

from heaven. 

 

I run through the raindrops and 

receive the sky’s embrace 

with outstretched hands and bared feet. 

 

The others hide behind closed doors 

in houses of false security. 

They peer at me through glass windows, 

regard me as an animalian spectacle. 

I’m a minor curiosity to them, 

nothing more than 

an orangutan at the zoo. 

 

But they’re the ones locked away, 

voluntary caged captives, 

refusing to view this gift of life 

as anything but an onslaught. 

 

 

They shake their heads at the nonsense of  

a joy they cannot understand. 

or–rather– 

a joy they do not even 

wish to understand. 

 

 

Then the joy is electrified— 

lightning strikes the ground, 

the luminescent walking staff of the storm 

stumbling through the world like an 

unsteady giant. 

His footsteps rumble through the air 

while I dance around his feet. 

 

The storm draws curtains over city landscapes that  

in / ter / rupt  

the harmony of the wild place this once was. 

It blurs the lines of history, 

and I remember 

dreaming and breathing and being

free from the self-imposed prison of urbanization. 

 

The tinted windows of the museum that is the world shatter in the storm. 

 

The foundations are exposed by the harshness of the lightning— 

it is built upon destruction, 

trapping its inhabitants in 

a forest of iron and clay. 

 

So I run away, 

for a moment, 

from the taskmaster of reality, 

though I know I must return. 

 

I want to dance at the feet of giants. 

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