Sunday, January 10, 2016

A Poem by Ryan Stone


"It's gravity, baby,"

and that's how it started:
three whispered words
under the bleachers,
two bodies
pulled into orbit.

From tongues of flame,
halting caterwauls
before flicking faster into long, thirsty nights

of lying this close, seeking new worlds
and unexplored places;
the smoke on your breath promising
freedom and danger.

A nevermore season of quicksilver moments
beneath a peeping-tom moon
suddenly ended,
just like it started--

there's a point during free-fall
where you pause to consider
whether to brace or just to surrender.
For a second or two
you feel like you're floating,
then the ground rushes up
to show you how endings
can sound like beginnings
but that
is just gravity,

Ryan Stone is a freelance writer, guitarist and poet from Melbourne, Australia.  He shares his home in the blue Dondenongs with his wife, two young sons and a German Shepherd.  On daily walks through his forest surrounds, he often peers down rabbit holes.

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