Via Galactica

Ovid called it a high track: It is a fundamental wave and rarefaction said by a force we have no control; the gods pass through this palace as I choir its mighty thunder, and then I quiet to listen closely as the night becomes a blanket under its enlightenment that guards the path to the ten million suns of physics that lay in wait.  My heartstrings yield as it sings the body electric, and the Palatine of Ovid is felt as an overtone all its own.  My eyes adjust to a light in the darkness as I'm suspended in its shadowy mist; the Via Galactica, a cloud such as this, seeing the universe move and holding to the pitch, and the peace in watching the life of its embodiment playing its musical instrument where the spirit is kept ― in the darkest of nights where there is fear not, this enlightenment is something that I look for, and that I love.                    
                       
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