The Thin Veil Between Me And Time

By Dominick Takis

The moon has a thin veil to shed a transparent mask fastened to the skyway. Its vanity is a temporal emissary to the distant lampshade it becomes cool and aloof.

Its aspect grave, like a faceless woman turning towards me suddenly, recalling Japanese tales of Noppera Bo and it’s the sea that receives the glow, the sorrowful fallout of her vacancy.

Spellbound on the silvery sets, the wave face wept in isolation, betraying the dark behind her creation. She draws in luminous figures, solitary strays, clouds clinging to light but without warmth will not linger for long.

See them cast in dissipating craft to disembody at the precipice, the Nuuanu Pali disassembling into a V where the past is trapped under the gravity of its vortex.

One colossal hex on the volcanic continuity of rims. Yet there is a transcendence to this slant of light as it imbues these sublime heights, while I pursue the fine line between logic and superstitious flight on the narrow paths

all the moments that won’t last get between me and time. Taking another precarious step to strike a balance between guesses and surefooted surrender to the next precious expression

I fall under.

Dominick Takis was born in Salem, Massachusetts, and educated in
Boston. He’s a writer and consummate wanderer.

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