a little poem. And I listen, intently. It's dark, but
I wonder what real darkness feels like—
still, unborn suns and moons, dead stars;
my innards cringe in coils to the thought.
When breaths escape grasp and I gasp,
dreams set to sail in deflated parachutes
could lead me nowhere.
And I am lost in a land of God, brought
to His desertion and forsaken at His will.
I killed ants and several little bugs because
they fiddled with my skin and fed on my blood,
or just because I saw a possible harm.
I wonder what real darkness feels like—
untouched by bodies, but haunted by souls;
clouds of ether, black, forever evading,
never-ending, unremitting.
But I've seen this darkness we carry,
within these fine interstices of
our corporeal networks. That which
appears distant, is very close.
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