Crackalackling Vines of Life

Tron-like giants raise their hands. Holding up the sky, they let energy pass right through them. Our homelights don’t flicker, all because they stand so still, quaking not, beneath those mighty waves of coil and thunder.

The moon from her heavens, it peeks through the curtain, like a mother watching children aplay at house, with miniature icons.

I also lift my hands, in awe of what men have done. In awe of the secondary light, so very, very far away. In awe of Whomever set governors above governors, above governors.

The light in my soul, it shimmies, a bit. I am not from Tron, or the Moon, or the Heavenlies.

I am more a critter of sawdust and slacker oil. I am quieter than waters which charm the beasts.

I am just a crooked lump of clay.

— in need of Divine Spark.

and Electricity.