Nights

What do you do on those reflective nights when like neon lights that flickered out too soon, the music stops? The porn-imaged screen keeps you no company. Nothing is left in the world but you; alone with thought. You try to become Emerson-like and channel “Man Thinking” hoping that God, or some divine ambition will move you to be more. More than the fields, the anthems sang at slave-time gatherings. More even than the past, which keeps its finger dipped in your soft, newly formed, undried, clay-pot present. Your preface faces altercation with your still flyleaf conclusion, and there’s no sightlier ending than one that dare think of modifying the beginning. Complicit in this new-world thinking becomes your mind. Your imagination transforms into the grown man crouching, not as the tiger, but consenting conformity, reverting to fetal-positioned power, mistaken for poise.

Reflective nights often speak like the moon to the waters. Reminding you that everything you are, including good-intentioned malice, is shone off every fragment that has relished in your presence. Every morsel of time speaks volumes in the quality of your existence. The essence of impact placed with trust in your hands, to bear up those around you, dissipates into new knowledge not founded in your own thought, but plucked up from someone else’s garden. You stop your quest to find your truth, settling for eating piece by piece, without leavening, another brain mimicking ecstasy; leaving virtue for idle worship.

Author's Note

I wrote this in about 40 minutes with little editing. Don't be too harsh.