when lost -

[Ipomoea]

IPOMOEA so lay me down in golden dandelions  At first, it felt a bit like falling. He was sleeping in that great grass sea when the mist first began to fall, dew drops settling like a thousand frozen tears upon his skin. The grass flutters their blades nervously all around him as the island shudders, lacing their fingers together in a veil hiding him from the eye of the moon looking down upon them. As the mist draws closer and Ipomoea slumbers on, the grasses begin to tremble and whisper to one another. They already know what comes next. When the darkness comes it swallows the island whole, consuming the grass forest protecting him. And as the shadows fall hungrily against his body he jerks awake, and for a moment he forgets how he had run for so many yesterdays through an island made of magic, and how that island shed its skin like the snake it wished to be. He struggles to his feet, reaching for the grass and the flowers that had cradled him only moments before - and finds nothing. Nothing to stand upon, nothing to grow roots into, nothing to stop him from floating away into the encroaching darkness. The magic in him snarls; and he thinks he can hear the magic of the island snarling back. But when the first spark of light appears before him, shining like salvation in the nothingness - he can begin to also forget the way he wanted to tear a whole through the magic. His heart slows its frantic beating, and in the spaces it leaves he feels only wonder. The star drifts closer to him,  winking and blinking like it’s struggling to contain all the secrets wished upon it while it fell. And Ipomoea steps forward to meet it. A thousand colors shine from the heart of the star, fracturing into a hundred thousand strands of gossamer silk spiraling from its center. The colors flicker; fading and swelling, humming with energy, captivating him. And as the star glides to a stop before him, purring in the same almost-soft tones of a feral cat, he reaches out. The surface of the star is soft and warm, like gold upon flesh, as he lays his muzzle against it. But at its touch it begins to simmer, sparks tearing free from it and spiraling away into the nothingness surrounding them, heat pouring off of it in waves. His eyes begin to water. And then the colors begin to flare, like a miniature sun exploding. The air around him burns, drops of color sloughing off and falling like tears to where the grass had been. Each one sizzles when it hits the almost-smooth glass beneath his hooves, and there it runs like the most brilliant blood he had ever seen. As the rest of the nothingness begins to burn with a thousand more stars, fashioning themselves into constellations of flowers and leaves and lightning arcing over his head, Ipomoea begins to walk. And when another star explodes into tears, he wonders if the island is crying all the tears he’s forgotten how to shed. His magic begins to weep with it. @lyr ”here am I!”

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