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Purpose or Obliteration
I dreamed I was inside a bulb—
a cathedral of filament and glass—
not dead
not born…..
but shumming**.
Glass walls curved like time
sealed but translucent
my fingers curled around voltage
like a secret
God was transcending.
The socket hummed a lullaby
of static.
Every breath of mine made sparks
the air electric
with grief
and longing.
I saw myself outside the bulb
in a room wallpapered with eyes—
each iris twitching
like a seismograph.
They watched
as I shimmered like an angel
in a jar of fire
as if I were proof
of something
too holy
or too hideous
to name.
The room beyond
glistened with wallpapered surveillance—
each gaze a blink
each blink
a test of identity
a hymn of entropy
and wonder.
I touched the glass—
cool as frozen memory
thin as a promise—
and the world on the other side
shuddered
like a dream woken
too soon
My thoughts turned tungsten—
spiraled
stubborn
resisting
the spark of enlightenment
or extinction
I spoke
and the words bent back
like boomerangs
buzzing
with static regret
A child approached
barefoot
real
impossibly tender…..
She looked like someone
I might have loved
if time had taken pity.
She placed her palm on the bulb—
her skin against my sorrow
the warmth of it
startling
as mercy
a forgiveness.
“Why are you in there?”
she asked
or perhaps
thought—
her voice the color
of candlelight.
I tried to answer
but my vocal cords was hardwired
my tongue
a fuse
My words came back
distorted
looped
charred
as if language
were combustible.
For a moment
I flickered
between purpose
and obliteration
Then
the ceiling cracked open
like a wound
and light poured down—
not to reveal
like revelation
like judgment—
to burn away
the questions
And I understood—
not everything illuminated
is meant to be seen
not all vision
is freedom…..
Some truths
are meant to flicker
fragile and holy
inside the bulb of the soul
unspoken
unchosen
alive.
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**Shumming: Shimmering Humming
Copyright ©
Daniel Henry Rodgers
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