The void has spoken; not in whispered threads
of subtlety, but raw, corrosive cries
that pierce the cobbled skies where darkness treads
and shreds of truth are nailed to splintered lies.

Its emptiness is panting for a taste
of something other than a comet's streak
and vapor trails of dreams now gone to waste
because the dreamers were afraid to speak.

A humble candle flickers; lets its flame
caress the darkness, sends its spark to call
the void, extends its wick to dare proclaim
that truth belongs to dreamers, after all.

Beside the candle's ring of golden light
an ember waits. . . for power to ignite.

- Laryalee Fraser

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