by F. J. Bergmann
Some dream only of clouds
roiling with trapped light,
not of a paradise on the other side.
The critical part of an experience
is the beginning, which becomes an end
in itself. There’s a certain freedom in indecision,
romance in being thwarted.
Life is an assault on the void, a song
humming at the black limits of space.
A cavalry charge through drifting petals,
not the blood-soaked, splintered grove.
Shopping for a bottle full of good times,
not a damned cage for a dwindling,
less-than-human figure. Lovers
slow-dancing in a field of flowers,
not the rotting pumpkin of a marriage.
Another prince searches rain-emptied streets,
holding the glass slipper before him like a lamp.
F. J. Bergmann edits poetry for Star*Line, the journal of the Science Fiction Poetry Association (sfpoetry.com) and Mobius: The Journal of Social Change (mobiusmagazine.com), and imagines tragedies on or near exoplanets.