There’s the darkness of the night.
The absence of light.
Where shadows and shapes dance and wrestle for prominence.
No telling which you can grasp and shove and which the sun would chase into nothingness
Viscous, like a silent bath for all things matter and form.
Squinting against it as if the tension in your insignificant eye muscles will convince the darkness to give way to something, anything, not that.
Resistance has no effect.
At least none that would chase the ghosts out from under the box spring.
Neither Logic nor leverage will speed up the sunrise.
Regardless of any promise that I will see the suns golden fingers clawing out from behind the darkened horizon, they likely will, like every day before.