Digging

How is it in the mortal night we find such black reflection, and come to question our complexion by the dying light?

Throughout the giddy glow of day we play in blue refraction, and bright distractions blind our actions till the shying ray.

Exhausted by denial we crawl with coiled tails, and cease upon the meaty pile where red things go to pale.

Upon the heap of death, we reach for one last time, in hope that we’re not just a step for other souls to climb.

For surely there’s salvation? And surely there’s a line? Somewhere within these desperate words I’m digging for divine.