So many aches are shadows
of pleasures that elongate
when a light source moves
away from us; we see darkness
deepening, cast by the fire
burning only, now, behind us.
What turns us away from the flame
so we step into the empty space—
following the form of night
who wears our distorted shape,
clinging to the ground, disguised
like the open promise of the grave.
Professor, poet, philosophical dilettante, plus some other impressively heady alliterations. Instructional designer and copywriter. Cognitive neuroscientist by night. Self-diagnosed coffee addict, sometime dancer, brooding bibliophile, and an always salty sailor.
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