It is the light
Pouring from a marooned windowsill
Coiled in total darkness
Cleaving away
Desperately

Inside peril thrives
In its full and bright display
Brandishing true color
Absolute and pure

The clarity of night folds
At the hot glare of day
Diminished by sun
Squandered by sound
The bountiful colors
Of here and now

The strife never quiets
In the proud zenith of noon
The horror toils on in secret
Trailing its scars
Toward the brilliant flare of dusk