A hole in reality itself
Sweating darkness
Eating the very fabric of life
Where does it all go?
A craft appears,
glistening with hi-beams
crawling with small dancing crustaceans
An entire ecosystem of appreciation for all things small
How much light would it take to fill that hole?
A final question exhaled as the only remaining
memory of the craft that now wasn't.
It was the kind of darkness that space could only dream of.
Blackness itself kneeled and prayed before this unholy absence for forgiveness.
A universe of suns tried and faild to put a dent in the insatiable consumption.
How could one mortal vessle ever dream it could aspire to anything beyond
crushing darkness let alone filling some of the void?
Well, Occam's razor is a heavy tool when dissecting light.
To peel back the layers of a photon
And find the glowing seed of purpose
To reaveal the tiny beauty in everything tiny.
That a smudge of color glinting off a piece of trash in the road
can outweigh the nothingness of all the universe.
Light is finite.
Every star will die.
and blackness never fades.
But light finds a way to live on.
It lives and loves; reproduces and evolves
and continues despite.
Blackness never changes.
Thus the little craft tries to bury the darkness in a grave of light,
but will it be enough?
