She gazed upon the fractured sky,
And raised her fist in wrath
To see the crooked cracks that marked
The violent aftermath
Of meeting her. Its fabric torn,
This was its fitting fate.
How could it promise endless heights,
And liberty so great?
How could it boast of boundless reach,
Of aeon twixt the stars,
And, having done, so cast her down
And leave her only scars?
A curse upon the painted vault!
A ceiling, nothing more.
Its searing hues of blacks and blues
Have bruised her to the core.
If, looking up, she had not thought
She heard its thrilling call,
Then she perhaps would not have risked
The rise…and more, the fall.
And now she fears to walk the world
Beneath its fissured face,
Condemned to ever scorn it for
So casting her from grace.
And yet… gazing upon the rift,
Despite all she has spoken,
She cannot help but think that if
It cracks…it can be broken.
– s. Clark