When night finally collapses,
dawn is the wound through which the light passes.
As the great moon, in the trajectory of its swoon,
consolidates to day,
witness its fade into listless clouds
braced for a fall
with only a thin gauze
to soak up the remains of its thaw.
Beyond the slumber of the creator
behind the shear walls of the crater,
smoke fills the windswept precipice,
smoldering beneath the retreat of dark,
the sun was the first spark, the most prominent streak
that flashed across the page.
With a pause to peek over the edges,
it’ll teeter like an illuminated feather
spreading under waves of undulating color
blinding the horizon’s climatic ending.
If words parted the veil of memory,
starting a slow descent from its volcanic cavity,
bright lines would burn from an inner landscape like a vision,
over fields of new growth with regeneration.
Through each entity, no construct spared
nor offered immunity,
it clears every border
progressing towards her sea
where sharks of the subconscious,
sensitive to emotional debris,
encircle the tattered remnants of the past
sinking slowly into shadow,
eclipsing the material
with shades of stained glass in eternity.
Like a prism, the light passes through
even the deepest wounds eventually.
yakskinpocketnotes 