The Spectroscopic Soul

The stars ask no questions.
They simply burn.
But I, being human, must turn even the burning into parable.
My soul is a poor spectroscope,
but still I aim it skyward.

Frozen in the Dark

The pale visitor rose above my bed,
her frozen gaze a weight upon my chest,
high breasts like moonlit ruins overhead,
the shadowed grove between her white skin pressed,
each whispered sigh a promise I might fall,
her laughter threading silence through my head,
and drew my failing soul toward the pall.

I could not move, could not refuse her claim,
her hand a frost upon my weary heart,
each breath a tide that whispered only shame,
the world dissolved, its mercy torn apart,
I felt the dark invite me to the deep,
its cold enough to steal my final sleep,
and leave no echo of my broken start.

Going Insane by Revolutions

In sleep, my mind is a planet orbiting itself.
Dream is the dark matter that keeps me from flying apart.
It cannot be seen.
But without it, nothing would cohere.
Like Aquinas’ unmoved mover, it does not glow.
But it grips.