Diurnal

Not all light shines the same,
Some lay soft, warm suggestions,
And some cast cold, hard judgments.
But they all purge the darkness.
And what do we find there?
Nothing,
Save the invasion of perception.

Saving our deepest dreams,
And most ruthless nightmares,
For the blackest of nights;
It justifies the intrusion.
But what do we miss?
All those things, scattered.
Scattered by our gaze,
Forced into small pools
Of a once infinite ocean
Of shadows.

And what right have we?
We the diurnal tribe, the conquerors,
Who disturb this elegant peace,
And tear at the clothing of the night
To reveal its naked, white truth.
We have no right, none at all.
Nor do we find
What we’re looking for.
For to discern what treasure
That darkness holds,
Darkness one must become.

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