Vespers of the Void
Vespers of the Void
I called it dusk — the first stammered syllable of a child orphaned from light,
I worshipped not the void in my chest, but its stubborn insistence on being,
the way one kneels before the wound that bleeds light, not before the cure,
and every prayer was a lightning bolt turned inward, point-first.
I anointed my own forehead, a priest without church or name,
I raised altars from the bones of stars long dead but still burning,
I wore robes woven from the pollen of wandering comets,
colors of mourning and of celebration stitched into the same sacred thread.
I came down to earth to dress myself in leaves, in dust, and in mud,
I painted my cheeks with the rust of clay, instead of the rouge of stars,
I crowned myself with stones, not constellations, so I wouldn't compete
with the light I was already burning in, thin, toward disappearance.
I called it black — the freedom I had lost without knowing,
the womb I was born from a second time, without priest, without altar,
the temple that asks no sacrifice, only a surrender both free and gentle,
a darkness that hides nothing, but stands in for skin.
The darkness called to me on a night with no backup star,
black bleeding through my dreams, leaving a trail back home,
the void — my only destination, written before I was born,
and life — just a short flight between one closed door and another.
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