Light never centers itself in the marrow,
or the hinged diagram of swinging doors
that make up your life. It never stores
itself like embers, burning through each narrow
extremity until it exits your singed
fingertips. Instead it leans you away from the noted expectancies
of “Every Man’s Road”, to where the dead are buried,
where the battered live on the fringe
of existence, where suffering is louder
than rain. It’s there that it meets you face
to face, refracting itself in the warm
colors of enchantment (and the clouded
hue of melancholy), leaving you to retrace
the sacred out of another’s - torrid storm.
