The Contentment of Night

Blanket night staves the empty; entwined with
feeling, the moment trembles
like dust, sweet windswept rush I
sense, becoming, roaring open as a rose
—so silent, so still, pleasant but
lonely but
making, like architecture, like
instruments like
Sagrada, slow, building, ambling through time
without nerves
quaking; the dark, is fine,
in being

Dark.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s