Glare

A blue light glare on the wings of serendipity
My God! what a hue—the sky against
a gaze of untarnished copper
Bent toward some angle of a future,
or perhaps a present—most certainly not past,
that guides an age from stone to bronze;
as if the change were necessary.
Hubris and avarice are gods amidst the
peopled steeples that construct humanity;
visions abound within the measurable
space that confines these thoughts.
How much space within and without!
What if a heart rattled with the beats
of many butterfly wings—different shades
of sunlight
as the nights die and breed day
and the days die and breed night,
The dusky moth seeks shine—
as we all must—but
is slandered by its sight in the sun