All in the faces of
people,
these rings, these shadows, these cycles
binding us through the centuries.
Do they not cry out in the night?
As the child cries out in horror and pain?
And do I not cry,
as these binding shadows cry
like a sepulchral entwined snake?
These people’s sentiments…
I can’t see the beauty.
I can’t find the hope.
Though I try, day after day.
I can’t see the sun for the trees,
or the horizon of the world.
I wanted a dream
but I’m weary
without reason.
All so easily explained.
These games.
Play the riddle for me, Esther.
And in these silent hours
perhaps I can sing
like the sages and prophets of old,
when in the dark and sombre years
a light came
that never went out.
But here I am,
a child of the divine,
as we all are,
watching the centuries fall
like resin from the sky.
And there she is with me,
knowing:
the cup breaks on the fall.
There’s no stopping it now.
We walk
pretending the day won’t end,
as if we have control,
as if we are not
a minutia collection of dust
born from a tormented star
in an age beyond thought.
Still, we walk,
just going and arriving,
and you don’t even say my name.
Nobody does,
in the twilight dusk.
Just the crying child.
The lonely spirits
guiding us through the centuries.
Save us now from this demented daydream,
this husk of reason
that follows our plight.
THERE IS A STAR
THERE IS A LIGHT
THERE IS A BOY
HE CRIES IN THE NIGHT
There.
There again.
Again and again
these cyclical dreams,
and us,
on the shore,
watching it all replay in our eyes
like short lived stars.
There,
there it is again
a dream,
a cry,
a husk
of life
petering out in lime lusk light.
In the faces of these people,
in the windows of their souls
I looked.
All I saw was dust
behind memory of memory,
time built on time,
energy
coursing through us all.
Just shadows.
Just dust.
Just a moment.
Just us.
Me, you, and I,
without hands.
Shouting.
Screaming.
In the dark.
And somewhere far beyond,
a child stops crying
and listens.
Feb 22
Feb 22, 2026 at 9:29 AM UTC
All in the faces of
people,
these rings, these shadows, these cycles
binding us through the centuries.
Do they not cry out in the night?
As the child cries out in horror and pain?
And do I not cry,
as these binding shadows cry
like a sepulchral entwined snake?
These people’s sentiments…
I can’t see the beauty.
I can’t find the hope.
Though I try, day after day.
I can’t see the sun for the trees,
or the horizon of the world.
I wanted a dream
but I’m weary
without reason.
All so easily explained.
These games.
Play the riddle for me, Esther.
And in these silent hours
perhaps I can sing
like the sages and prophets of old,
when in the dark and sombre years
a light came
that never went out.
But here I am,
a child of the divine,
as we all are,
watching the centuries fall
like resin from the sky.
And there she is with me,
knowing:
the cup breaks on the fall.
There’s no stopping it now.
We walk
pretending the day won’t end,
as if we have control,
as if we are not
a minutia collection of dust
born from a tormented star
in an age beyond thought.
Still, we walk,
just going and arriving,
and you don’t even say my name.
Nobody does,
in the twilight dusk.
Just the crying child.
The lonely spirits
guiding us through the centuries.
Save us now from this demented daydream,
this husk of reason
that follows our plight.
THERE IS A STAR
THERE IS A LIGHT
THERE IS A BOY
HE CRIES IN THE NIGHT
There.
There again.
Again and again
these cyclical dreams,
and us,
on the shore,
watching it all replay in our eyes
like short lived stars.
There,
there it is again
a dream,
a cry,
a husk
of life
petering out in lime lusk light.
In the faces of these people,
in the windows of their souls
I looked.
All I saw was dust
behind memory of memory,
time built on time,
energy
coursing through us all.
Just shadows.
Just dust.
Just a moment.
Just us.
Me, you, and I,
without hands.
Shouting.
Screaming.
In the dark.
And somewhere far beyond,
a child stops crying
and listens.
