Not Reading the News

You live beneath a crystal dome

that blocks out glittering black.

The ground is too smooth to hold traction,

but everywhere is uphill, so you cannot slide down.

Your orientation is your perspective.

Gravity is the contact of the soles of your shoes with the glass.

Your globe is only a temporary reprieve

from the terror within the smoke, constantly swirling beyond the curved walls,

above and below and at every side,

hammering at your barriers, relentless.

The world shifts below you as you take a step forward,

as though the sphere rotates while you remain upright,

but you suspect your world is fixed in place-

as of a fixed game, rigged

to hide the fact that

it is you who is upside down.

The ground is a white filter through which Heaven and Hell are all a dark gray.

All the world's light glows out from these walls.

Sometimes, you idly wonder

if the air is thick

and you are swimming through it instead of standing.

You do not know if you are a drop of rain,

plummeting through the haze of midnight,

or a bubble of air,

trapped, submerged, beneath a leaf.

Maybe your globe is not a pocket of one substance

existing surrounded by a different medium;

maybe your air is different from your walls

and so the bubble could be popped. Shattered-

ruined, destroyed...

Freed?

If you were outside, would you still feel so safe?

There is such comfort in consistency. You don't know if you want change,

or if you would even like it.

The rubber of your shoes slides up the endless curve, catching faintly. You pace.

You think you can see stars, somewhere outside, far far away,

but the glass is too thick to really tell.

You wonder what it would be like

to be released

into the larger existence outside your little sphere-

but maybe you are floating and this is all there is.

Maybe, your bubble is carrying you

through a vacuum, an endless expanse of absense,

and nothing exists outside the bubble at all.

This poem is about: 
Me
My community
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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