In time darkness is softened along the edges,
losing a grip on the rim of the moon
but still visible in the shaded pools of Nuuanu.
Mostly unseen, this transitioning
into morning surfaces
serene streams of penciled lines
drawing out the movement,
the illusion of time,
how all is subject to its division,
a revision of the bliss we knew as children.
Our passage, an indentation in someone’s memory
and nothing besides belief in something grander,
a glimmer in thickets of bamboo and banyan.
In the translation of a moment’s whim
the word gets out like a wind
through the gnarled branches of past instances.
What should have stayed within palace walls,
escapes like a confession
and in this expression
we diminish what is sacred,
wringing out any secrets with a reckless pretension
as we transition online and appeal for attention.
Photos shrink the moment,
while egos inflate with over exposure,
every posture crowding the foreground
obscures nature until it is rendered irrelevant.
Under compulsive scrutiny
we cannot escape the desecration of those walls.
It comes inadvertently from increased foot traffic
in the worn out light,
an oppressive weight as it falls into disrepair.
yakskinpocketnotes 