Poetry

Step 11 (71.)

All lights go out, one by one,
and we are left in pitch black void.
It is a soft darkness, light and gentle,
easy enough to paddle through.
The somnambulist knows their way around these parts,
so we feel through the great oilway together.
Cosmic viscosity does nothing to stop us,
for it is low and clear,
almost like water,
and we smile at this strange universal sustenance.
Where have all the stars gone?
And if they are really absent,
have we been chosen to stand in for them?
I cannot spark my own light,
though I feel the snap of my fingers
in swirling space;
sharp sounds reverberate through my skull,
and on the thirteenth snap,
the void feels lighter.
No fire, not yet,
and the knowing sleepwalker
is gone.

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