Incantations aught be barely visible.

Mourning for the Center of the Night

Lapping the center of the night. 
Holy fuck its been so long. I was shimmering in the merleau silk of this waning July moonlight. Holy fuck, its been so long. I was somehow staggering, carved wood for ankles. Footless journey across a gravel field. There is a mountain, trees, so dark. So dark the green is almost black. And going up towards the top of the sky is a bear. He is mourning. Mourning for the center of the night. But can we find the colours of dark. Can we feel the texture of invisible lack of light? Can we velvet this omnstrosity of thought in our teeth. I feel the texture of this dark dark invisibility of black rainbows. The shimmering blue purple gold green teal of blackness. And you took her for a fool. Walking on the lake. On the moonlighting of this . Please tell me you feel the thoughts of mine as so similar to yours. Do you know that the colours of this morning icy breeze in July. feel my beat. Feel the colour of blood and womb in the midnight of what was the first colour you ever screamed in breath of why am I not liquid. Why am I not alchemical bodies of across the ocean in the gilded glass of your grandfather’s clock. Telling you its time to wake its time to heal the oldest of stories. Your mother needs you to do the same. Running in the garden of a man who knows he is knows he is. Why don’t you speak more? Why are you silent. This is black velvet night. And you are the bear running running running towards the center of the so almost black. Holy fuck its been so fucking long. Just tongue. Silence and the origins of nothing.