You will see Orion in me. In my rather too much leg. Tucked under neck, toes sticking out towards rainbow galaxies. They itch to track you, unfurling from the spine, down and down and down. Slinky jumping from the arrow head, pointed at your wordy heart. Apocalypse: the constellations shriek. They don’t want to save the world. They just hate the ugly patch our orbit takes. A screwed up sheet in a universal waste paper basket. You will see Orion in me. Orion is no longer. Orion is me.
writer, book reviewer, daydreamer
Treeshallow Musings 