peter griffin
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 Murmurings of a Profane Wanderer |
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Murmurings of a Profane Wanderer
In the darkness,
One cannot see,
Differentiation between reality and Reality occurs just this side of never,
In the darkness,
All but the most prominent forms remain hazy.
Scattered,
Seemingly haphazardly,
By an owl,
There exist night lights,
Here and there,
In the darkness,
Shrouded by deception,
There lies the source of their illumination,
And a secret,
It was not haphazardly,
That bulb is arrogant,
Perhaps they all are,
We won't know,
Ever.
The light shed is weak,
In the darkness,
One stumbles often,
The gaps between the areas of distorted shadows,
Shadows cast within the reach of one lumen,
They serve only to distort the true nature of what the lumen reveals,
The space between is vast,
It cannot be properly filled.
Images form,
A barren wasteland,
In the darkness,
Confusion ensues,
Ensures victory for the predators.
Those are not night lights,
No one seems to notice,
In the darkness,
How could they?
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