Flashlights

Without a pen I'd have no tool,

Except ten fingers, which will trace,

Wet pictures in the darkened sand,

Sliced open by majestic hand.

The pictures don't last when they're dry,

And so we must live near the source;

The water, that has both the might,

To preserve and to sacrifice.

Close to the depths, beside the black;

From the unknown we find motive,

The power to build shining statues,

Our salutes to cherished virtues.

We don't run from the black, we stand,

Our flashlights cast searching circles:

Illuminate one at a time,

The milestones of a living line.

The fragments each show up alone,

Small dots in need of clear connection,

Until the sun's rays eclipse ours,

And light our way amongst the stars.

There's nothing but safety in white—

The bleached walls of a shallow life.

So we must stand before the black,

and let loose the light at our backs.