Not yet, we say. Not yet


We are surprised when the darkness lands.

It is never our time; hope fractured.

Because we always  hope.

New companions: The broken heart, the fear, the endless closing shade

That makes it hard to breathe;

The creeping loneliness, some inevitable dimension  

Where there is nothing, but the cold judging universe.

Not even light; a world sealed,

with us at the core.

Weighted, anchored, pressed to inaction.

The pain of a growing cry

With no one to hear it.

Centered, silent, singular, shrouded.

Sound fades to a hiss, touch to stone.

Cloaked, thick with endless time.

Sunk. Bottomed. Walled. Hollowed.



It only takes a whisper.

Somewhere in a billion miles of dark, cold space,

a little machine sends a ping, a fraction of light;

a hand still, reaches,

an eye frozen, blinks;

lungs grow with air.

A voice.

A song.
We with ethereal hope, rise;

We always rise

And to the greedy universe,

Not yet, we say.

Not yet.

About michaelstephendaigle

I have been writing most of my life. I am the author of the award-winning Frank Nagler Mystery series. "The Swamps of Jersey (2014); "A Game Called Dead" (2016) -- a Runner-Up in the 2016 Shelf Unbound Indie Author Contest; and "The Weight of Living" (2017) -- First Place winner for Mysteries in the Royal Dragonfly Book Awards Contest.
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