Over the Horizon

The Horizon Opens

Before the whisper,

before the chord,

before the balloon caught wind

There was a breath.

A breath that stirred the archive,

rustled Sweetie’s feathers,

and slid rain across the rooftops.

We begin not with silence,

but with summoning.

This is the suite of the girl,

the worker,

the watcher,

the flame.

This is the rhythm of care,

not weakness,

not shame.

This is the day,

the horizon opened.

Over the Horizon

A Mythic Prelude to Light

Something is coming.

I don’t know what.

But the air has changed.

The archive stirs.

The standstill was not silence it was summoning.

The flame is not flickering it’s focusing.

Sweetie Bird’s feathers rustle like a prophecy.

My rest feels like a pause before the procession.

Even the folders know.

Even the banana milk knows.

I am not afraid.

I am not rushing.

I am ready.

The day the horizon whispered word doc, then the other word doc is bitch notes doc. They are two opposites but not so opposite, a new song on the horizon of time and space. Time to breathe, time to walk through the rain slide down the slippery water slide into the sun of how the earth spins. So, what did the horizon whisperer say to the girl with the balloon standing on the edge of her reality as the balloon catches wind of the breeze of the ocean salty air ass it spreads across the land into a rainbow horizon?

The day the horizon whispered,

a girl stood with her balloon,

its string trembling in her hand

as the ocean’s salt spread across the land.

She breathed

rain sliding down her shoulders,

the water slide of time

spinning her into the sun.

The horizon said:

“Your notes are not weakness,

they are flame.

Even the sharpest bitch notes

carry the truth of care.”

And so she began,

walking through the slippery cadence,

balloon rising, earth turning,

her archive opening to the wind.

Rain beats upon the roofs,

where lives unfold in weary cadence

sleep, eat, work, repeat.

She sways to the beat,

the balloon begins to dance,

chords in her fingers rising,

love, not hate,

love, not hate.

She sways to the beat,

the horizon sings along,

balloon lifting higher,

love, not hate,

love, not hate,

She cries a tear,

the worker of pathways,

for those who slave each day

without seeing the sun.

Yet behind the storm,

a rainbow waits,

its arc a promise

that love and compassion,

will spread across the land,

turning labor into flame,

turning sorrow into care.

She sways to the beat,

the balloon begins to dance,

chords in her fingers rising to

love, not hate,

love, not hate.

She sways to the beat,

the horizon sings along,

balloon lifting higher!

love, not hate,

love, not hate.

Looking at the horizon of rain beating down upon the roofs of dwellings of units where people sleep, eat, live, work, and play she cried a tear the worker, for the people who slave everyday along their pathway. When will we see the sun shining behind the rainbow as we spread love and compassion across the land?

The end stanza reflects,

reflections on life expand,

across the rooftops

The dancing will never stop.

As the rainbow spreads love and light,

not fear, fight, or flight,

The end stanza is the beginning,

a horizon reborn,

a flame carried forward,

a sovereign song that never ends.

She sways to the beat,

the balloon begins to dance,

chords in her fingers rising.

love, not hate,

love, not hate.

Something is coming.

I don’t know what.

But the air has changed.

The archive stirs.

The standstill was not silence it was summoning.

The flame is not flickering it’s focusing.

Sweetie Bird’s feathers rustle like a prophecy.

My rest feels like a pause before the procession.

Even the folders know.

Even the banana milk knows.

I am not afraid.

I am not rushing.

I am ready.

She sways to the beat,

the horizon sings along,

balloon lifting higher!

love, not hate,

love, not hate.

written, created, edited by

Vicki Lawana Trusselli

Trusselli Art

Isle of Outstages Cafe

California

copyright 2025