Creative Writing With Light

Running with the Symbol of, ‘Light as goodness’.

A hush of sun-rays, gentle, pure, sowed rainbow seeds into each raindrop. “Twas the finest of water eider-down that day, the softest blanket Lady Spring could dream-spin. ‘Twas a misty cocoon for the soul metamorphosis within. The clocks took to a more leisurely pace, dawdling as if to slow old man time was a doddle, a simplicity hardly worth the mention. The light, you see, commanded him so - for a seed must soak, swell and grow. Even the most mighty of oaks was once a fragile embryo. Dovish clouds bowed to blue-sky’s song and dayshine warmed earth, guarding, waiting, anticipating, praying for the first green wands to venture skyward. 

Running with the Symbol of, ‘Light as goodness’.

Light is music played full-loud on these best of summer days. Light is the artist’s brush when blue-skies are heaven’s stage. Light is the hug of the skies, as warm as love’s own smile. Light is that which stays even after dark, whispering from moon and stars. Light is the flashlight of a dear friend, when all around is grim and sight herself is destitute. Yes, darkness is a poverty, a poverty of soul and spirit same. To the beggar, even the meanest flicker of a horror movie bulb is the moth’s moonlight. So bring on the light, natural and bright and let her shine full-bold. 

Running Against the Symbol of, ‘Light as goodness’.

Light fell, failed, withered to a mean and muted gloam. Each hue was robbed to destitution. Each hue was drained to a poverty of grey. Each hue was scheduled for suffocation at the hand of a coal-night, at the hand of coal-cloud, at the hand of a city that would not tolerate the inconvenience of famished faces. Rage. Rage. Empathy is dead. Resuscitation breaks ribs. Pen its epitaph. Of breath, there is none. Of heartbeat, there is absence. Safer, it is safer in the dark oh hungry one, in shadow’s blackest hug, with the knights of night. 

 

Running Against the Symbol of, ‘Light as goodness’.
The narrow vein of blue, between ragged cloud edges, blackened as the light drained. Bloodless faces, gaunt, pallid, stared, eyes orbs of strangled insurrection. The landscape, earlier green and bonny, wrinkled as if smothered in satin black, as if beneath her funeral shroud. Soul-light, song-light, aromatic-light were the only compasses left to the open palm, to the sensitive skin. Only in the darkest of days is love a bold rebellious act. So sense your inner light, sense music’s beat, sense the flora, feel merry and bright, cradle your own pilot light and navigate that ragged and closing gap to the stars beyond.