night wine 2

night gets deeper as the wine becomes shallow. i call this the inverse square law of solitude. not sorrow, merely a means to draw out the darkness where light gets tired in the shade. night is dark, yes, and darkness is still good. i study its shape and dimension, master its geometry, enfold myself in its meaning. after all, how else am i to understand the light? having stared into it, no wonder i am blind. so much the better then. the solo night sojourn, the stillness of a sonata, sonority within a space outside of time and self. my self is half of silence and purity of wonder. life has its afflictions, having learned about different heartaches. so i teach myself new meanings for redemption. memories are only shifting shadows, a light in reverse coming as backward seasons. and there can be no regrets, only the sublimation of ice into air, and i am the intermediary liquid state of being me: a vessel for the wine, a vein of blood from autumn vines, a tangled thicket of time pressed like grapes between inescapable lips. perhaps i am a simulacrum of sensation. and i wait here, anticipating new modes of silence, unshattered stillness. in the meantime, i find myself killing time, but time won't die. so i am forced into the space within words, deeper within a deepening night. perhaps we are waves of hello and good-bye, currents of the sea's coming and going. and this only moment, where my heart is tattooed to my heart. the ink is invisible but you can feel your way across the lines that sketch the blueprint of my blood. perhaps life is a poem, and my heart is a poet. well then, let my tongue be a feather quill. the ink is in the wine glass, after all. i seek sedation within words, as a possible addiction, kinda like a need. writing is a self sacrifice, and i will bleed for you.