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I black out the simple sketch before me.
Are falling over themselves.
Red blinking electrical tower
Blinks behind the cascade of falling mountains
Closed eyes reveal what first becomes a silence
Of schemes and exasperating melodies of the view;
Of today’s accomplishments and settlings.
Closed eyes. The back of my eyelids.
The clock won’t turn fast enough
And though its already dark,
The night won’t come quickly.
And I’ve forgotten what PM stands for.
Maybe pensive moment
Jittering, I do shift in my sigh
Over top of my shaky, falling, cracked out kingdom.
I hold up this blackout in my
Monument, to anything but myself
And to think I could make mountains fall
And red blinky lights combust upon themselves.
I think nature says enough about me,
“Well done good and faithful servant,
together we have wasted eight minutes,
and entire red blinky power plant,
and a big, old, mountain chain.”
“So we are powerless, mother,” I say, “in the night when it seems like you have so much control?”
“Indeed, it seems that way.
Like how light the dark becomes when your eyes are closed.
Like the way you dilate day by day.
I too, once forced my horizon down onto grounds I never saw,
And made silences with ample sound.”
And it shocked me that I was one with my curator.
And it took me that I was one with my curator.
Please moderate another time for me to go.
Set the skyline back up,
White lights cast out the shadow
Of the marketplace
And red blinky light and mountains.
The marketplace of nature,
The honest shadow of the night.