My soul can only crawl from its resting place 

away from the pure sun, 

fragile enough to sizzle and steam under its smoldering rays 

what I need is midnight, moonlight, twilight, 

a cavern of faint crystal glow, 

reflecting and refracting all the hues I need. 

Evening thoughts are stitched  

with the same tailoring as my soul, 

so easily tattered in brightness. 

We must be preserved in cool air 

like a painting, precious and crisp  

from our own company, 

untainted by rough-and-tumble touch. 

I could carve sediment and soil into a home, 

even take up the task of molding a volcano 

ash and basalt in my lungs, 

the magma a forbidden treasure 

exuding rays without matchstick ignition. 

The lava lies on its own, 

illuminating the onyx-coated air 

and melting to obsidian oblivion. 

Rain I could allow into my midnight dwelling, 

trace man-made roads and paths 

in search of puddles, 

little ponds of silver-scaled fish 

vaulting under moon rays 

this is a world I could live in, 

soft piano against the pattering rain 

echoing memories and lingering life. 

I can only exist in the half-light.