A ship
crosses the ocean,
in the darkness:
darkness, black & endless
no moon,
no stars,
just clouds -- thick & low
clouds that can't be seen
The ship has lights,
but those lights know
an event horizon
Lights sometime
glint against the waves,
those roiling & undulating
waves,
and the lights bounce off
the ship's hull
But no one can see them,
because if anyone could see them,
the seers would be seen--
unless theirs is a ghost ship,
piloted by literal ghosts,
or some other agent of observation
Maybe there is fog --
not enveloping the ship,
(such mist would be felt
on the skin of those on deck)
but, rather, a fog between
where the ship is,
and where is should be
For it is surely off course,
listlessly drifting,
all hope arrayed against edges:
edges of ice
&
edges of the world
Not that the world is flat,
but, perhaps, it's not fully sculpted:
maybe nothing lies outside
the range of the seen:
outside the bounds of experience
It sounds crazy,
but all kinds of crazy
form in a mind
submerged in darkness
Living like a Morlock,
outside the shaft of light.
Lured beyond walls of rock.
Mesmerized by blue sky.
Loving the thought of blue,
but burnt by the mere sight.
Praying for an Eloi view,
but feeling it's not my right.
I have walked in deep, dark places,
and crawled through darker, still --
gas-lit slums long after the dusk,
where lamplight failed to spill.
So surprised by fleeting faces
that faded in and out --
like visions from the sleep-drift, they
never loiter about.
They come, they see, and then they pass --
these alien observers.
They pass with just a fleeting glance,
like someone else's server.
They care not what you think you need,
or who you think you are.
You're just an automaton shopper
within the grand bazaar.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 