Obsidian

The light of the moon is a reflection of the sun. Though we perceive phases, she is never in truth illuminated, partial or full, she is always completely whole. The sun goes on burning, while she compliments him. We respect them for the light they lend, but why do we not laud the darkness? Why don’t we dance for the shadows? Here on our self-centered planet, we think we own the world, when truly we are at the mercy of our vision. Without cones or rods, how could we perceive light? The planets don’t rely on our sight. Mercury is still mercury without our feeble map of the stars. Navigate the self, and one discovers therin a fine ash as black as obsidian.

I sat at the foot of mount Vesuvius and heard a conversation between the sun and moon:

Sun: you are my mirror.
Moon: what do you see?
Sun: me.

Just then the earth shot up in flames of jealousy, whose aftermath resulted in a sea of hard black stones, which shone like silver, but you’d never know, if it weren’t for the darkness.

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Filed under Moon, Poem, poetry, Sun, travel, writing

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