"There's not much doubt in any of our minds that no complete idea springs fully formed from our brow,
needing only a handshake and a signature on the contract to send it off into the world to make twenty-five billion dollars.
The germ of the idea grows slowly..." - Walt Kelly

Saturday, April 27, 2013

The night became intimate

Day Twenty-Seven: Tried the prompt, but it didn't work.

At once the world was gone -
it erased itself, a wisp of smoke
exhaled and inhaled with a cough
and a slight discharge of blood.

Adrift in the vast blankness of space,
we see colors - the deepest and truest
of every classic hue - and in time,
the population floats asleep, in dreams.

Before the sun can rise once more
it must first set, but the moon rebels,
a shot of teenage angst extrapolated
on an interstellar scale - so they sleep on.

She sealed the passage of time quietly,
a breathless whisper that dissolved to vapor
in the strength of the vacuum, a faint wish,
back-lit by starlight and still an empty prize.

Her kiss is not always the beginning or end -
it can also be the middle, a stopping point
between the day your known world ends
and the night, when mysteries take hold.

Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Menomena, Pique

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