Hour Twelve

Your prompt for this hour is to write a poem about moving. The move could be a real or imagined. It can be about moving as a concept or moving as a reality.
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Through nebula clouds of shimmering dust–
amassing as meteors, planets, and comets;
falling through the heavens heavy as black
holes–I awaken in a new form. Laden with
memories of past motions, movements in a
symphony—playing notes that resonate through
time. Moving as swiftly as leaves carried through
white water—rapids that roar as they flow.
Emerging from a volcanic eruption, lava carries
me into a deep ocean trench, where I solidify—
petrified as wood. I appear silently, fulgurant—
accompanied by bellows that permeate the
storm clouds. Floating with winds brought from
southern seas, the ways of the crazy cloud will
never change, and my dear Ikkyu, I mean for them
not to. I’ll move down the gullet like fresh moonshine
scorching all those bad memories right off the back
of your throat; who really likes the taste of anguish
anyways? Syringes carry black tar into a blood vesicle
highway, rushing apathy to the senses. I’m moving
out, to establish home within.

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