ardor

pale yellow skies evaporate slowly

over the black bones of life..

when the moon keeps bleeding

from wounds I do not see

something within flutters

dripping from below, maybe

just the light of one firefly

crawling, between birch trees

into the white space, slowly turning,

turning grey, then black.

rushing into  his own world

to be the light for the blind,

to be the truth to liars,

the warmth for ice.

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