Arachnocampa luminosa

The chasm is gentle.
It hangs on car windows in the dead of night,
opens itself up to the sighs that arise
from moments of clarity.

Clarity is rare.
A valuable commodity when minds are numbed
by a voluntary desire for involuntary reaction.
It's easier to be governed. 

Governed by anarchy?
The yoke is a light one, only to be remembered
in the panicked gaps between things to do.
Entertain me, that's all I ask. 

But the information-action ratio
is out of order, skewed, skewered, shattered
into a million fragments of lost potential.
Life rots in sedentary position. 

Then the chasm appears,
and we fill it with rubble, guilt plugs the hole 
but cannot make whole 
what we ourselves have broken. 

I embrace the chasm,
for the chasm is me. 
And the more I stare into it,
the more clearly I see
that beautiful things bloom in dark places. 

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