I sit beneath the willows

Where shadows come to hide

The night— she welcomes me

Her stars have lost their light

I listen closely to the wind

And think I hear your name

But all I hear are muffled cries

That echo my own the pain

As I enter grief's dark portico

Of all that's left behind

This emptiness— it follows me

Your loss, my heart, entwined

Consciousness

is tripartite

something

near or far

the moving

the dead

and its affect

like you and I

and the All

02.03.2025

Pythagoras challenge @dctezcan

"Nothing can dim the light which shines from within." Maya Angelou

Through the rivets of darkness,

The veil of clouds,

Looms a rampant light:

A star, pivotal in its path,

Bright and luminous

Amidst drudgery and murkiness,

Gleaming ribbons

of age old truths,

Unveiling secrets

Hidden in the grave.

Steady as it streams,

Blinding in intensity,

The starry light

Echoes an ardent plea

For equity and compassion

To conquer the heart of man

And save his very soul.

Obscurity always knows how to steal joy,

Sucking it in like a vacuum of despair,

Planting kisses of death on any plan made.

Starting with the littlest aspects of life,

Dampening them with drenching acid rain,

Depression reigns supreme over my head.

Torrential tsunamis of push and pull,

Insanity versus sanity, if you deign believe

Either is on a separate, cleaner coin.

Whether there's a cleaner coin, mentally arises,

As I flip the shiny token of "joy" on knuckles

Bruised from beating the shit out of life.

Yet, every night, as I undo Mayweather's laces,

I look up to the sky and beg God to give me

A sign and let a star shine through for luck.

"Above the cloud with its shadow is the star with its light." (Pythagoras)

__________________________

The guards marched into the heart of the inner city streets. Folks soon began to burst into hearty cheers to cheer on the celebrations for the coronation ceremony. Images of the young heiress had been plastered all over the city. But not everyone had been amused to see the next in line to the throne. A huge crowd had gathered around, and the guards had been told by the council to be extra vigilant— if they saw anyone that looked suspicious they’d have to take action- right away. Somewhere not too far from all the cacophony of deafening chorus of cheers~ a little kid looked on in awe from the top of her self made tower. How he dreamed of…someday being a part of that crowd..and maybe even getting to see what it was like being in the heart of the big city. For now all the kid could do was just got extend the latest invention, and use that to view what was going on from the top of the kid’s watchtower. Suddenly, a gust of a strong wind came out of the middle of nowhere. It rocked the little tower back and forth. The kid was tossed into the air, and tried to grab the edge of the tower, but lost its grip and began its descent toward the spiked wall that was around the home base grounds. The last thing the kid saw was the sharp point of the star from the top of the watchtower spinning fast. It spun and finally stopped— with its sharpest point embedded in the kid’s young heart.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=ALXFl6HfKbg

Darkness. Not night-darkness. Not almost-morning darkness. This darkness ate light. No sky, no line where anything ended or began - just dead rock under his boots and nothing above.

Landon Brooks tried to breathe, but his chest caught against the suit's metal frame. OXYGEN DEPLETION—FIVE MINUTES REMAINING. The red warning light pulsed in the corner of his vision, fast like a trapped thing.

His radio crackled. He'd tried every channel, every emergency code, every goddamn frequency they'd ever used. Nothing came back but static. His lips were moving but he couldn't tell if he was still speaking or just thinking about speaking.

He looked up. Stars everywhere, too sharp, too bright. The whole galaxy scattered across black nothing. But one star grabbed him and wouldn't let go.

Not special. Not different from the others. But his eyes locked onto it anyway, like it was watching back.

His laugh came out as a cough. His fingers were clumsy as he hit the transmission button.

"Commander Landon Brooks. Mission ID 347-A. Nobody's there. Nobody's coming. It's just me."

The silence after felt heavier than before.

His mouth was dry. The air tasted like pennies and battery acid. Each breath came in thinner than the last.

"Guess it's you and me," he said to the star. "You seeing this? Anyone up there?"

Nothing answered. But he stared at it anyway, that one point of light that maybe, just maybe, burned a little brighter.

His chest jerked with a spasm. The cold wasn't fear anymore - fear had burned out hours ago. This was emptier. Quieter.

His hand hovered over the transmission switch. One last try. One more shout into nothing.

"Not ready," he whispered. "Not yet."

One shallow breath. He pressed the button.

One weak signal pulsed out into the black.

The star didn't blink. The universe didn't care.

Then silence.

I don't know how to tell you the moon is full

when you've only ever see the half of what is.

You are the phases of moon that will never reach completion.

There is no togetherness in the reality of your shadow.

When the moon is full and the sky bright with possibility,

where will you be?

In shadows, under a blood red moon.

Loudly muttering to yourself

all the crimes you've perceived against you.

I suppose of all the moons this one suits you best.

You, hungering for justice that never seems to satisfy the blood lust you bathe in.

I don't know how to tell you to want to fight for all of us

when you've never seen us in the first place.

There is only you. There is only hardness. There is only death.

But that is the justice you crave.

I suppose there is no light in this shadow you've cast now is there?

February 10, National Umbrella Day, is coming up. Hoisting barriers to water and against ultraviolet radiation has proved convenient for about 5,000 years.

But to mix a bad pun with the gravitas of metaphor, there's a darker, shadowy side to these accouterments. After all, they block the light, and blocking light is a powerful metaphor, too.

We seek clarity. We observe with acuity. We need light for both. We even seek "the light," as portrayed in our death mythos.

Consider when Mrs. Rittiner was prepped and draped for her laparoscopic surgery. Anesthetized without incident, the anesthesiolgist confirmed the successful induction of her controlled coma, and Dr. Stolier began.

The trocar was inserted at her navel and her abdomen inflated with gas for visibility. Unfortunately, a vagal response slowed her heart rate, which--tragically--came to a stop.

Both the surgeon and the anesthesiologist, well trained, were no strangers to complications. The anesthesiologist pushed cardiostimulatory drugs through her IV while Dr. Stolier began cardiac compressions. Over the brief time of observation during these maneuvers, the doctors awaited a favorable response.

It was not immediately forthcoming.

Yet, Mrs. Rittiner survived. The surgery was aborted and the resuscitation ultimately succeeded. Weeks later, Dr. Stolier saw Mrs. Rittiner in his office to reschedule her surgery.

"Y'know, Mrs. Rittiner, you were technically dead for about ten minutes there."

"I heard that, Doc. I wanna thank you for saving my life."

"Well, it really wasn't a heart attack or anything like that. Just a vagal response that bottomed out."

"My heart stopped, right?"

"Yes."

"Dead's dead."

"I suppose so," Dr. Stolier agreed. Then he asked, "Tell me, I'm just curious, you understand. Did you see a light. Y'know, like they say."

"I didn't see shit!" she fired back.

"Oh, my."

What arises now is a dichotomy of faith:

Is there truly nothing after this life, a secret Mrs. Rittiner was privileged to learn? Or, alternatively, should Mrs. Rittiner re-examine her doomed, wayward life and strive to re-ingratiate herself in the eyes of God?

Seeking shadows is a seductive umbrella: protection--from the elements and from very dark clouds alike: you can't see them, but they can't see you. Or, alternatively, it's just a way to stay dry.

The shadow in the light of my existence,follows and forms my sense of reality.

My head hovers in and around the clouds,some times in a blurred vision of prenatal hierarchy.

When i stretch my wounded hands,the healing of the light embraces my empty desires of flesh and blood,beyond my temporal knowledge.

If i push and pull apart,tearing,the means of the ends,the beginning of my purpose unfolds and edifies my sacramental carnage.