An old bit of writing, again.

I still rather like this one; Probably could use more editing, but that’s generally the case.

In places
more frequented by stars
Night is a vast and velvet thing-
An arcing mass, abyss
from which the wisps
of dreams are rent
or born — to which
their unreckoned ellipses return
at first light
or break of day—
Gifts to the morning star, forgotten.

But here in dense-packed places,
glowing gases trapped
Diffuse the spark of Heaven’s light
And night’s song
is not the breath of trees
nor sinuous tale
of crickets’ Morse
But an iron drone-
the hum of shapes
forged, not born
And nighttime, in dense places
closes in—a binding
In dust-filled quarters, corners
of space, repressed
In sleeplessness—

From which blurred dreams
at length release—
to memories of light,
sonorous blurs—
subconsciousness— and colors
that dissipate
And have no names
in waking, nor in words.

 

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