Little Candles from the Void

The world to us arrives as a shroud of obsidian gales,

     a tempest of grey static that hungers for the light.

We start with the hollow breath of the Great Silence,

    each carrying a splintered candle beneath our coats—

A quiet, amber pulse, a kiln hidden within the chest.

The Flickering Solitude

In the throat of the storm, the light is a fragile secret.

Singing ghosts carry lightning bolts made of frozen rain,

Others, the geometry of unwritten echoes.

We are islands of soft flesh shivering in the draft

Guarding our sparks against the salt-spray of the void,

Fearing the wind will drink the gold from our hands

And leave us as nothing but unsculpted shadows.

The Alchemy of Proximity

But look—how the ink of the night thins

Where our little candles lean into the same shivering space.

When the mercury of my song touches the phosphor of your being, the wind loses its teeth.

We do not merely survive the dark;

We weave our wicks into a braid of solar musical fire,

A cathedral made of nothing but breath and vision.

The Great Revelation

Together, the dim becomes a fresco of the infinite.

The light we lend is a mirror,

Turning to show you the artistic ink in your marrow and the way 

your hands move like weaver birds in the gloom.

In this shared radiance, the storm is no longer a monster,

but a canvas of moving gold mist,

Waiting for the unified bloom of our collective sun.

For we are all the architects of the glow,

lifting each other, until the night itself…

is forced to admit its own beauty.