“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Friday, May 15, 2020
Upon further refraction
The dark parts are never totally absent
but make counter balance
while the wave-
lengths of light
lure us to the edges
of our material domains.
And tenacious as
we are, discover
how pointed
the arrow of time
must be-in order
to pierce the shield
we forge between
then and now,
somehow
All
observations become skewed
and miss their tiny targets
more often
than not.
All the while,
the incessant beating
heart, clock, hands only
amplify this glaring
temptation to shatter
our own gently built
crystalline structures
aligned and angled
just so-
objects prevent the light
from penetration
into the facets
that make us so
Reflective.
In retrospect,
the gradient
is held dependent
to a degree,
only to consider its own color
cast on the walls
and splashed across the floor
in the time it takes
to name
something never
There.
Photo credited by Kelvinsong / CC0, 'Prism tribeam' taken 2012 in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.
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