An indifference type of darkness, one without energies in internal, pepurtual motion, nor fiery feelings, fleeting in the most self-pious of us, leaving scars. Such thoughts and things being echoes, afterglows we crave, looking without, from the numb spaces of this dark indifferent night. Clouded confusions human ways can be, but we are addicted to internal torments, such a darkness is too still, calm and too silent to endure.
prose
Moon
moonlight pours over my space, no curtains on nights like this. Skin feels nothing, spirit however, slowly stirs in this ancient, white fire.
Fleeting
We converged for a time,
once.
Like two gallaxies colliding,
We where cataclysmic.
Scribbles of Shingi Munyuki 