By Alannah Taylor
At night, the air on the surface is misty wet,
And the skies are alive with diamonds.
The diamonds themselves are dead with the trapped screams of those crushed by gravity
in the act of straining for them. They maintain that immense pressure they were formed
To buy, to spend, to display, sign binding contracts, sterilise love, untangle passions.
The pressure that locks in the light,
Binds it to endless reflection between the pristine surfaces
Like a boundary to clear sight, but
Refracting, losing all those bits of itself at the edges that held its form to shape.
Pretty, pretty things.
Light bouncing onwards like a lost thing which cannot surrender
Like an echo
Like the scream of someone
trapped in time by crushing space. And, not,
no, not like love at all.