I Wanted to Put My Feet on the Sky Again

As I lay back, I lifted my feet and rested them against a mighty pillar.  It drifted ever upward, to the foundations of heaven where it kept the sky-place ever above us.  Oh so mighty above us.

 

I could feel my resentment welling in my navel, a creamy pool of slithering resentment rife with serpent bile.  I pushed the pillar with all the fear and anger and resentment of the worms, the lowly things too small for gods, too impure for angels, too simple for notice.  I pushed and the pillar yielded, toppling ever away from me, tearing a great rift in the sky until it sighed to earth with such a finality as might see the cosmos engulfed in flame.

 

The vault above cracked, splitting a great, blackened crag.  Without light, or ceremony, a lone figure fell free, flailing helplessly against the azure backdrop of space.  A twisted and bent, feral, foaming God crashed to earth in a jumble of emaciated limbs and blasted skin, and lay panting in a pool of his own divine fluids.

 

“If you would return to heaven, oh seething, feral God, you must climb my seepage, my intestines and cast me out again.”

 

 

I wanted to put my feet on the sky again, and let go of the world like we used to.  Like we did in the smoky red light of oil lamps that stained the ceiling.  I always liked the way you looked with the flicker behind you and the ceiling close enough to touch.  Grey pavement washed up on the sky’s shore in every direction and we could walk away from what we needed.