Lines of silver light
falling from the moon
as poems,
piercing the darkness
of the world.
Words are diving
into the non-static fall,
every word is joining
the dancing light,
rods are becoming sharper
than the cones
eardrums are merging
with the calming tune,
sound has gone silent.
Bouncy eyes can behold the writer,
enterprising ears can hear
the painting on the dark pages,
humming through the nebulous stages
of the world.
Futile,
futile is the effort to capture
the blurred unity of
the effervescent lines
bound to re-appear
cleaving straight through the
hollowness
of the world.
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