I lost the light breifly.
Lost in rambles of concrete and stress, and bearing nights and rain caked days.
I lost the light
For a moment.
It grew quiet in me and died down in screens of monotony.
Still it is always there. The pregnant night of dreams — the rotten wood beams of civilization — a place where it flowers. It blooms in images. A ballerina bent before a scarlet screen. Stop motion black and white. Murder hornets golden prison spines scratching. Hives of people carved into the side of the river bank along the hudson.
I lost the light briefly
but it never really went out.
It never really grew quiet. I just refused to listen.