The Lost Egg
Upon the brink of the heavens, floating on translucent dreams, I hung there. A suspended promise in azure blue, born from the tender embrace of clouds. Each beat of vapor breath forged me anew.
The dance of gravity claimed my being. Showering me in quilts stitched of golden yolk, spiraling down in warmth and splendor, but with silent wistfulness. Here, amid the rush, I too grasped the yearning for land far below.
A whisper coaxing me downward, into the orchestra of splashes and whispers. I rendezvous with voyages past—a boutique memory stitched to earth itself. And there, framed by emerald blades, lay the forgotten—my kin, a fragile apostle encased in alabaster shell.
This was my descent's calling, to witness this lost egg, émigré from celestial auctions. To make union between sky-borne raindrop and the encapsulations of lonesome loosening beneath. My rôle, blade-wielder of its surface tarnish.
In\xa0descending lies vulnerability,\xa0below shaded dim alcove corridors; behind snaking torrents I caress texture rarefied—a soundtrack curded in yoke and tides triumphant.