by My Self : The Muse

artificial light belies

the darkness we

still grope through

thrusting hands, arms,

legs, ever forward

and around in

inconceivable emptiness

we seem to forget every existed

and in this streetlight’s

glow — maybe does not

except underneath and

through everything

hiding in the lying

flow of fake warmth

and constructed certainty

of incandescent life

so much put away

so many covers

and still

nowhere to hide

lofty fears

of pocketed hands

averted glances

in a moonless night

in a sunless life