Prisms

Prisms

The might of the world shines through us like light

through a prism, we are not imprisoned

in our minds, we are enshrined in them.

And on desolate days when the shade

out-crowds the light, we must reflect

back on our own flame and shine

through ourselves.

Because the world does not bend to us,

it bends through us, refracted

in the diamond of our minds that we

mistook for glass, that ask

for shifts in ourselves first and the universe

last. For we cannot make the rain bow

down or the ground stand up,

the seeds we wish to see grown

must be sown within us.

We cannot split the

seas, only the oceans of dreams

that lay dormant in our souls.

We cannot flood the

lands, only the plains of our minds

where nothing yet grows—waiting for us

to decide what to plant.

So we strew ourselves across the

soil, waiting for the white light

to strike us, to enter our spirits

and split us into spectrum, until

we were the rainbow hues painting the cosmos,

rebounding infinitely off of our own reflection.

We are prisms, a medium dispersing the earth and its heavens,

we cannot change the light, but

we can change its direction.