rose-colored stars the size of basketballs,
violet rays spinning like dervishes,
cloudbursts ebbing to explode again
and then again, tracing swift nebulae
on all the parsec breadth of that
stern and sable canvas.
sounds, the artful decibels twisting
to plunge across my retinas, painting
the rustle of furtive phantoms
who flee in serried bands
from the black, blind nightmare hunters
thundering like dark aurorae
through the aether.
They will ask
what it means, seeking idly for allegory,
pondering how to forge a syllogism
from axioms of spirit: but the sun
is not yet risen, and in the strange hour
when sleep yet lingers on the waking world,
we may sometimes forget to mean
and only see.
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