Fall 2022 Prose Poem by David Sky

Through days like stone and nights like forgotten waters, I walk across this sacred bridge made from my ancestors smooth, white bones. The bridge dissolves behind as the void of the abyss nips at my heels with each step forward. It is as if Source Itself draws me irrevocably toward some unfathomable destination. The Thing that I am become is hollow - bell metal - meant to be rung. Rung, my vibrations obliterate flesh and blood leaving only the deep, solid resonance of this hollow, metal bell itself ringing and ringing and ringing ...