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.