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Absent Flashes
There were no flashes in the shroud;
not of Turin, but of sound, and light,
and restless colors that weren't.
Though they could, they hadn't then,
and wouldn't for the evening, no matter
what we'd do to provoke them and their ire.
We spoke in idle, but idle things... Somehow would,
in spite of us, build a fanged momentum, and
occasionally bowl us over when we feigned
disinterest. They only fed on funny bits of
insight, or "insight", or relevance found
completely on the spot. And even still,
they'd be picky, they'd be prudish; they'd
be snide. Denied by time, our Father,
not a God but a thing, the only true king;
somehow absent of any mercy for you,
for me -- for anything, ever, anywhere.
So they strove to fascinate and leave;
bitter at the funny way of things,
the general disinterest of the world at large,
and the fact that they lacked the presence
to do anything more than luster in the air,
or frighten people in the passing dark.
