The Brass Spear

It rises, a golden hiss, from the warm palm,
a shard thrown against the distracted blue.
Its ephemeral glow, a blink of an eyelid,
carves the silence before the verdict.
It is not gravity that calls it back, but an ancient
memory of the soil, a dark magnet.

The horizon rolls in a waltz of faces,
emperor and crest challenge each other in the vortex.
Each turn is a destiny, a “yes” or a “no” never said,
an uncertainty that dances, unaware of its weight.
Then the air grows dense, braking the enthusiasm,
and the peak vanishes, an illusion of wings.

It glides, then snaps, a final twitch,
on the grass, or stone, or wood, finds its landing.
A dry clinking, a seal upon the future,
and lies silent, metal, the enigma solved.
Returned inert, only a shining circle,
awaiting the next, minuscule ascension.