A Patron of Shallow Light

I don't often greet disciples of Midnight anymore. I'm so empty, so hungry for places more vast than what my mind contains, so weary of being the keeper of my own fate. I still wonder what truths are concealed behind burnished seals of constellations but I'm too tired to witness the sequined, star-coded riddles that hint at prophesies sewn into the folds of small hours and the flow of wide, serous-steel veins that wound darkness as the moon is slain in fair deaths. I used to shiver anticipating the feeling of some strange Knowing that animated skin with goose-flesh and eroded bones with gravity as if both would seek to diffuse into night and abandon me as a pile of human pulp. I tell myself that I am too old, too sensible to make wishes on stars or search for optimistic omens among symbolic stickers affixed to God's great ebon envelope. Instead, I seek direction from the silence of my senses, in the dullness that comes with light without depth, work without pleasure and I am bled by symptoms of naked hours and loneliness, swathed in the patient void of bright, bulbous deities that allow no light to assume greater clarity or purpose than theirs.