The void holds constellations of its own,
eclipsing lesser legends we arrange
in shining pebbles. Shadowy & strange,
they stretch their silhouettes like raptors flown
from rifted light. What’s not is all they are,
& even that invisible to eyes
corrupted by the toxic blare of skies
too wise for night, or wearied by the stars.
Small wonder that those few who see—or saw—
these negative enigmas seldom map
their shapes for strangers. Ancient ways prevail
when recognizing epics in the raw,
or navigating eddies of perhaps
along this river. This dark-winding trail.