The sky unspools in burning thread,
a swirl of fire where thoughts have fled.
The village sleeps in silent grace,
its windows dim, its peaceful face
untroubled by the wild above—
a night not made for dreams, but love
of chaos, light, and trembling blue,
a soul that paints what eyes can't view.
The cypress claws the wind with need,
a mourner frozen mid-recede.
It reaches toward the cosmic spin,
as if to pull the madness in.
Each star a wound, a voice, a flame—
they pulse with rhythm none can name.
No heaven here is soft or still;
the moon is sharp, the stars are ill.
Yet beauty weeps along the sky,
a fevered grace that will not die.
And in that wheeling firmament,
a mind once fractured, incandescent—
offered the world its final light,
and called it peace.
And called it night.