ink black

ink black

an ebony lacking
in all possible reflection;
limpid, mildewed blackness
crushing forward, through a glassy
introspection, solid,

insurmountable
without debate. the dark tongues
slaver in crusted tendrils, as the no-light
folds inward, crumpled.
embroidered with a sudden disquiet,

as minutes drip gently through sleep.
first light crackles, hissing
against the horizon,
before arriving with raucous address.
soft-lit explosions ripple the new sky,
with the palest hint of yellow

running down the window pane
like spilled paint. the colours arrive slowly,
yet marching with an eagerness that reveals
a silent comfort; once a moment is given
to understanding the morning.