First Solo
(an incomplete poem)
To push off was in a way, an act of faith.
Faith in his own ability, or that of his training.
To balance as if on a knife edge, crucial;
the tiniest twitch, counterbalancing an equivelent bump.
Lifting off, yet at peace, balancing like some spirit being,
a radiant liquid apparation, Nebulous on the edge of space-time
the sting of air numbed by cold. Reality numbed by speed.
Blury points merging as one in the peripary of conciousness
each one ignored, yet processed somehow by some deeper thought;
one not limited to time nor place, which subconciously notes it's
surrounds.
Not like singular identities but more a random scattering.
Even the prominent colours, blue, red particularly,
not even a mosaic, more like a scattering of marbles, or lego pieces
random over an untidy nursery floor.