Land of a thousand lakes

Spread below me are lakes by the thousands
midst Northern trees and trees -
     so many trees from afar are grass
     the Sleeping Giant's backyard -
thousands of lakes, untouched and cold, below me.

Pale Southern veins break the deep,
roads in reference, dry brutality - 
     quiet the gods whisper rolling tympanis
     a dampener found in thunder - 
they inspire in me sadness, for secretly I would be a lake.

Below one peers with osprey eyes,
iris shores are yellow beach, and endless - 
     silver fish we fly taunting
     the barbed grasp unaware - 
by thousands pupils flash, never slept, hungry.

I will leap from this seat to hurtle downwards, splashing
beneath the surface and in the void -
     they are not lakes, from here
     they are empty solids, are pits - 
leaping from this seat I will slip and fold into nothing.

I verge the approach, soon engulfed by pitch,
and pitch my voice screaming - 
     bones will shatter into lung
     notes frozen in deep space, a vacuum -
to land with such ferocity to challenge gods before me.

I would that I could howl my soul, pounding
with fists and knees, into your shore -
     retching forth from toes to tongue,
     all offerings be breathe, 'til insides are out -
if only to be merged, skinned and plasmatic.

© Sandra Mannila