Hope Swims Electric

Stygian, inky oasis;
a darkness--seemingly--more blue than black.
Where hope swims electric,
shooting off wave after wave
of dazzling neon dreams, most are blind.
They feel pressure, sure, we all do,
and they feel motion, but they can’t see.
Some have eyes, useless as they are,
grotesque things, monstrous things,
things you could use to scare the kids
into behaving. Teeth like ancient jagged
vessels; gnashing, tearing, binding;
carrying sleep, sweet forever-dreams.
A quickness dizzying
in its splendor and suddenness,
anchoring you to where you’ve sunk.
Light in veins, lightning stains
slashing out from the biding stillness.
Do they have a switch? Is it reactionary?
Or is it the last thing you’re supposed
to see before eternal tenebrific obscuration?
One last flash before your eyes become
abstract ideas of what was, what’s happened, what is
no more: another set of sunken, unseeing
monster peepers waiting to scare the children.
The deep is a dream that visits me
every single night.