I land in a forest.
The touch of summer peeks through the trees
and pinhole sunspots spray the ground.
The surrounding foliage
is a healthy and mesmerizing emerald.
My hands, which are considered rather tan,
are startlingly pale in comparison.

It is gorgeous here.
(It is gorgeous anywhere that wasn’t there.)
It is beautiful and it is peaceful
it is bliss and it is ignorance
it is beauty and the beholder’s eye at once.
There is nothing to fear,
because—

Something that I didn’t notice before
Is the perpetual silence in the air.
Usually when there is life there is sound;
in cities it is deafening,
and even in the rural countryside there will be birds.

There is nothing to fear
because there is no one else here.
There is nothing to fear
because I am both the predator and prey now:
I stand atop the pyramid and I will peer down at my own reflection.
I will simultaneously bleed and snarl;
There is nothing to fear.
(Other than perhaps myself.)

Surrounded by trees
And the humid, acrid air

I realize that I am alone.

I am alone.
I am forever trapped in the undergrowth.
And until I bloom
And until I rise up
I will never see the outside world again.

So I stand still.
And I pray that the pinhole sunspots will lift me up.