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'vespers of neon'

The fluorescent drone is the only psalm we know,

A choir of flickering gases in a row.

The grid is stretching out its copper hands,

To map the hollow where the altar stands.

Hollowed out by the ritual of your name,

I am the wick that’s waiting for the flame.

A circuit breaker trips in the dark of the nave,

I am the master, and I am the slave.

Between the static and our sacred breath,

We find a symmetry in digital death.

Your voice is filtered through a bit‑crushed sky,

A neon vesper for a tired eye.

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