When I stare out my bedroom window
in the haze of insomnia

I expect a smooth and ever
twinkling oblivion,

as if Jackson Pollock had
painted with light upon the sky.

But I am met with a dusty dissipation.
Sulfurous synthetic light.

Part of my heart wonders if
darkness still exists.

If somewhere on this glowing Earth
exists a dome of black speckled with

twinkling corpses of long dead
stars and a band of translucent

milky space matter. I hope when my eyes
close for the final time, we are reunited,

as the dark wraps its cold
and glittering arms around me 

like a mother holding her
long lost child.