​The night has pole-vaulted into the day after
An irony, for it remained night.
The streets were empty, and the raintrees which lined the street,
Visible from my bedroom window, rustled in the wind,
As if they were uttering to one another, sharing a secret they knew I didn't,
From watching my silhouette, over the years.


As I stared at them whispering to each other,
I caught my reflection, a pale, translucent, doppelganger;
There was an uncanny sense of foreboding,
Of not the purpose, but the void unfilled by it
Did I see the half-filled glass, or was I focused on the
Space that I needed to fill?


There was no movement in the room; the only sound I
Heard was the low-pitched drumming of the air conditioning.
And then, my musing was dissipated by the measure of reality.
Reality did not exist if I did not notice it.


But then I did -- the conjectured future, like the transcient night
Passed into the present. I spontaneously raised my LG G4 and snapped a photo,
Embalming the moment into an inconsequential artifact of time,
Stowed away into the binaries of my smartphone,
Until I chanced upon it a few moons later,
And brought it to life once more.


-- Wildy, 19 Nov 2015 --

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


++ Dylan Thomas, 1914 - 1953 ++