It fills the night as water in a vase,
darkness—more than the absence
of light but cognizant
and self-actualized.
It rules not by force or oppression
but by the boom of it's blackness
and vastness of the space
it exhales with the confident
wave of a long tuxedo arm.
The day stifles—that
sky, azure blanket
that all concur is
wondrous and good
I find a straight-jacket. That
sun that dull blue sheen
killing me in a sweaty
pit—desert-like and
depraved and full of wrong
ideas.
I crave
the echo of a night and its
stars unstressed,
unobstructed,
unnamed in an open
forum of time and space.
I'll let those pinpricks
tickle my skin knowing
it's all the refuse of an
old era; light-years
and lifetimes birthing, dying
between our exchange.
I hope one day to create
something that could
travel beyond its death.
I hope one day to travel
beyond my skin.
Magnificent reign, the last stanza is damn good. I've actually had similar ideas recently, not about night, but about the way light commutes here to earth and dies in our eyes. The light reaches our pupils and transforms, transmutes into lightening within the brain, neuron storms and neuro-chemical fires. The life span of light, or life cycle; birth, reflection, transmutation?
Anyways, this is the shit and I know one thing for sure, you do travel beyond your skin reign, we all do. More than we know.
It'd be cool if there were a point, at any time, in one's life that, let's say:
For instance, if I were born May 31, 1987 @ 21:42 and a star emitted/birthed starlight at that same moment and it took 26 years, 6 months, 17 days, 12 hours, and 10 minutes to reach earth and I stepped outside and saw, literally saw or caught/absorbed that light into my own eyes, the light that was born on the same timestamp as I. I'm sure it's happened at some point in all of our lives. The say sunlight takes 8 minutes to reach Earth, so maybe we a baby is born you could take them out in the sunlight for the first 8 minutes of their life. . . . maybe it's trivial, but it's an odd thought.
