When Light spreads her fingers Darkness dares not linger, there's treason within their collision. Ink black can't mold bread while the sun bares her head, but both cloud each others vision. So neither can figure what causes the trigger, there's little room left for precision. They both wait and pray that the other's delayed 'cause neither can make a decision.
This was a one stroke poem written in a soju bar that I recently stumbled across again.