It was one of those lights that hung from a wire. A very old style of light, like a spider dangling from its lone string, swaying in the stale old winds. It danced in its own light in an eternal tango with fate, swinging and swirling on the dance floor.
It had one of those glows, an old yellowed shine like the dulling teeth of an aged hound. Those yellow lights illuminated the surrounding dust like polluted snow falling from wooden clouds above. The dust shimmered like a star amongst a million, somehow catching your eye among thousands of brethren, all the same as itself. Each flickering on their own time as the light shifted and swung on cold and aged gusts. They spoke verses, each their own, to show the world their beauty.
It was one of those light bulbs that flickered as it swung with the light, casting a cone of rusted glow. It collected dust and dusty wing’ed moths to its hull, flickering like the watchful, blinking eye of a leader, gazing over his kin and people with a protective, fatherly nature as they bumbled around the streets he had built. Protective and graceful, it looked across its kingdom of false starlight, all to beautiful to not be heavenly.
It was one of those moth, and older dusty moths that left a sparkling trail of artificial stars
as it flew. Large, intelligent eyes searched the sky for the moon’s silver gaze only until caught by that which swept across the wood. It fluttered and mumbled to itself songs no one would hear, unless you listen carefully. It was a primitive wisdom that sat only within one of its own.
It was one of those nights, where all is silent, yet all is awake and gibbering to the world, yet, unless you listen, all is silent, and all is one. One of those nights where only the wise can stand the deafening silence.
YOU ARE READING
Within the Catacombs of the Soul
Short Story"They who dream by day are cognizantof many things which escape those who dream only by night." Edgar Allan Poe. A collection of short stories and poems written over the years by Alexis Pool.
