At the end of the day,
when the crickets find me
most attentive
to their feast of roses and drunken
nectar songs,
The darkness
that settles in the pit I carry,
this stone
heart needs no theorist
to confirm
this is where the swallowed
Information
has been broken into dark energy
as a
compression of all things
in one
day
Though
they needed my light to see
and absorbed
all thermal emissions,
fueled by
love and friction
seared in
and cauterized, the hole
Space for
consolation with these over-
flowing words,
no sense of black contains
All meaning
At the
end of another day,
crickets
had their final say.
Painting by Henry Golden Dearth [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Painting by Henry Golden Dearth [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
No comments:
Post a Comment