The serenity of a power outage,
the overlooked fruit of man -
or rather, the lack thereof,
when the darkness reclaims her throne
and suddenly she is no longer the hostage.
The losing of as a declaration of.
And yet, this is when i feel most
like the winter branches in my front yard.
And to think, it's all random.
But yes, i know.
Random is a lie.
Nothing is done at random.
The events of a day cannot be random.
A day is pushed along by the unconscious prayers of the non-believers
(restitution is brought in the attempt to forget).
Artists; praying in the strokes of their pigment,
in the steady hands and the tired heart.
Scientists; praying in the obtrusive theories made finite,
in the trained eyes and the searching heart.
Lovers; praying in the fear of solitude and solidarity,
in the immovable lips and the stolen heart.
But, they fail to see God in their own actions,
in every power outage.
The godly Artemidorus fails once again.