Shrouded in darkness
I counted eight steps
into the night
Perfecting my vision;
Sketching one brush -
to a sable art, and
other to coat myself whole
and, luckily
I found no difference
between the hold of my fingers - a brush;
and the painting that meshed me through
Fulfilling a cimmerian life
defying
all rules of perception
Where the language barge
with forked human tongue
The night towed me, across
the rings of the dark universes
with a sledge and softness -
My nyctophilia, my comfort
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