Her Name is Star
She is blind.
her name is Star
& she drifts—
a fragment of nothing,
a splinter of everything.
the sky cracks open.
darkness
spilling,
folding,
folding her.
she cannot see—
light hiding
behind its own shadow,
but she knows—
knows the unseen burns
brighter.
no prayers.
only numbers,
curves,
spirals.
her faith etched
in geometry,
the slow hum
of an indifferent
universe.
smallness,
infinity -
a single breath,
a galaxy collapsing.
blind,
blind,
but aren’t we all?
sight is just another dark.
& in the dark—
we find light
always waiting.
About the Creator
Iris Obscura
Do I come across as crass?
Do you find me base?
Am I an intellectual?
Or an effed-up idiot savant spewing nonsense, like... *beep*
Is this even funny?
I suppose not. But, then again, why not?
Read on...
Also:
Keep reading
More stories from Iris Obscura and writers in Poets and other communities.
Iris Diaries: Play-Clay Dreaming
At 9:30 PM, Melbourne’s Yarra River explodes with kiddie fireworks - a dazzling performance for an audience that will be drooling on their pillows by ten. And here I am, Iris Obscura, once Queen of the Midnight That Was, now demoted to bedtime sheriff in the tragicomedy of domesticity. From high heels to house slippers - oh, the indignity. But don’t worry, I’ll glam it up for you. That’s my specialty.
By Iris ObscuraExclusive • about a year ago
Comments (1)
Oooo, this was absolutely profound. Loved your poem!