There is darkness,
like singed angel's wings,
shadowing the hollows of the night,
curling along the moon's lips
like the jutting cheekbones
of a starveling child, crisscrossed,
netted around blackened stars,
caught between
the lowered black lashes
of curving gutters,
slick and glassy with ***** water.
From a distance, light travels slowly.
We see the gleam of stars,
like a handful of scattered shards,
and do not know that they have gone out-
have been out-
and are cold black lumps
floating in space.
We only find out later,
years after the light has faded.
By then, it's too late.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 5:52 PM UTC
There is darkness,
like singed angel's wings,
shadowing the hollows of the night,
curling along the moon's lips
like the jutting cheekbones
of a starveling child, crisscrossed,
netted around blackened stars,
caught between
the lowered black lashes
of curving gutters,
slick and glassy with ***** water.
From a distance, light travels slowly.
We see the gleam of stars,
like a handful of scattered shards,
and do not know that they have gone out-
have been out-
and are cold black lumps
floating in space.
We only find out later,
years after the light has faded.
By then, it's too late.
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