At rest with restless visions of the day,
the day to come when restlessness abates,
I fold the light in subtle shades of gray
behind my resting eyes where vision waits
for that-which-clouds to solemnly disperse
like mist reveals its absence in the lake
as smooth as god removing morning’s curse
or silence in the cries which gods forsake.
I sleep in some precarious embrace
of warmth beneath the presence of the sky
which signifies the darkness I replace
with civil twilight, dreams, and no reply.
Replaced beyond millennia of hope,
I wake into the light through which we grope.
---
The Edge of Twilight
Marcus lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as shadows danced across it, cast by the faint light of the streetlamp outside. Sleep evaded him, as it often did, leaving him stranded between the waking world and the one beyond—a purgatory of thought and vision. Tonight, though, felt different. There was a weight in the air, as though the universe itself held its breath.
He closed his eyes, letting the restless images of the day bleed into one another. The coffee cup he’d shattered that morning. The hurried footsteps on the subway. The stranger who had brushed past him with an expression that seemed carved from stone. Each moment flickered and faded, replaced by the dim gray of waiting.
But as Marcus drifted, something shifted. The familiar hum of his apartment dissolved, replaced by a profound stillness. When he opened his eyes, he was no longer in his room.
He stood at the edge of a vast lake, its surface impossibly smooth, reflecting a sky caught between night and day. The air was cool, heavy with the scent of damp earth and something else—something ancient.
From the mist that clung to the water, a figure emerged. It was neither man nor woman but something in between, draped in robes that seemed to shimmer with the hues of twilight. Their face was obscured, yet their presence was undeniable, commanding.
“Why have you come?” the figure asked, their voice echoing as though it came from the depths of the lake itself.
“I don’t know,” Marcus replied, his own voice sounding distant. “I think I was looking for rest.”
The figure tilted their head, considering him. “Rest is not found here. Only understanding.”
Marcus frowned. “Understanding of what?”
“Of what lies beneath,” the figure said, gesturing to the lake. “The surface is smooth, but it hides much. Your visions, your fears, your desires—they all dwell below. To rest, you must face them.”
As they spoke, the water began to ripple. Shapes emerged beneath the surface—faces, moments, fragments of Marcus’s life. The shattered coffee cup reappeared, but now it seemed to hold more than spilled liquid. It brimmed with guilt, regret for words unsaid. The subway stranger returned, their stony expression now a mirror of Marcus’s own isolation.
“I don’t want to see this,” Marcus said, stepping back.
The figure’s voice softened. “You must. To fold the light, you must first let it break.”
Marcus hesitated, then knelt at the water’s edge. He reached out, his hand trembling, and touched the surface. The lake dissolved into a cascade of memories and emotions, washing over him in waves. He felt the weight of every decision, every moment he had tried to bury, and yet, as the tide receded, he found himself lighter.
When he opened his eyes again, he was back in his room. The first light of dawn filtered through the blinds, painting the walls in soft shades of gray. Marcus sat up, his heart steady, his mind clearer than it had been in years.
He didn’t understand everything, but he understood enough. The restless visions would return, as they always did, but now he knew they were not to be feared. They were a part of him, and like the mist on the lake, they would disperse in time, revealing the stillness beneath.
And with that, Marcus rose, ready to face the light.