Wistful By Phoebe Anthas

Here, one of seven and a half billion,

hung nebulous and tiny in a sea of wild mysteries,

scattered broad through the purple ink

of ancient vastness, like bird seed flung wild,

I stand, and learn, as if it was something new,

how to walk free in my own skin.

How to balance on the tight rope of such uncertainty

as a gyrating rock round a fire ball

made mostly of hydrogen.


And I behold my apple size world,

With its yellow splash of happiness

gleaming through the frozen white rain.


How small can I get–   and yet, how large–


There is that within me,

not of bones and dirt,

that calls to the flaming vastness,

yearning for the stars

as one does for that which is most familiar

yet which they have lost.

I spread these hands wide,

hoping against reason and science

to hold it all close once more.


And the stars shall come, I suppose,

when I least expect them.

Come as a dream,

softy, then all at once.

My little hourglass broken,

sharp shards glinting rainbows.

And they and I shall fly together,

When the cage door is opened

and the dove of my heart escapes.

01 • 14 • 2018

Phoebe Anthas is a 22 years old, a dreamer, artist, poet, and a student of human nature in the classroom of the world.

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