Poetry

[Protonexus]

Elongated shadows are cast from every upright object and scatter the ground like scratches, as if each was the last bastion of darkness. The great sun peaks over the horizon, breaking the veil of the long and cold night. The denizens of the dark scurry for their hiding places. What once was an elegant mansion, a paradise of splendor, for the creatures of the night is reduced to a sliver - a streak of shelter, an inn of ill repute burgeoning to capacity. There are not enough rooms in the bordello of shadow for them all to have their way. As the Earth tips further into the light, the claw marks of darkness slip slowly to their dens. As the day goes on, they would return again - reemerge to reclaim the night kingdom. This day is the final day, for Earth has chosen the light to stay. The night is over.

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Tell me a story of the time
before we had words to rhyme.
Of when we pulsed to talk and
had no head on which to stand.
What was it like before we
were segregated and built the
walls to protect ourselves.
When was unity put on the shelf
and packaged not to be opened.
When we did we not pretend
that we are somehow seperate.
How did we become so desperate
to put a label to end freedom
and try to call it wisdom.