It begins as an invite
to explore one's inner space, a realm
previously undiscovered, usually overwhelmed
by cover of darklight, and shadow; but luckily, all you need is
the right kind of helm, unwavering and mighty
and the courage to dwell in the unending alacrity
of sunfolk that swell, unmistakeably and suddenly
into a whole, whirling solar system of majesty;
a Merlion, indeed, for his immensity
and size, and bulk, and girth,
around which you tread most daintily, for fear of what might compel
you to descend, oh so readily, onto the surface
of wonder, and awe, and marvel
at what it feels like to have your claws rappel down
the surface of the softest side of the most beautiful planet you will abseil
over and across, as light itself boulders into blundering, wondering reveal:
this is the side of the universe that deserves to be unabashedly male.
Unreservedly unavailable to toxicity and spite;
unconservatively drawn in wet and mighty light
that cannot help but impel one's biases toward a spoiling for a fight
against all that is dim and dark mattered. All that is frightfully
hidden, and tormented.
There is a winged horse, unquestionably,
rising across the sky:
It is you, painted into the final, dawning colour of every single one of your stripes.