Epiphanies always have consequences.
Apocalypses always require assembly.
A star. A distant pin-prick—maybe
light from an ancient orb gone supernova—
portends the end of something, and the birth
of something new. But what? And why?
What difference should this faint illumination
make to those in shadow on the journey?
The journey. Set your foot to paths uncharted
impelled to some uncertain destination,
ask inconvenient questions of those whose power
disinclines them to acknowledge answers,
barter time from old, bloodthirsty fools
who sit on queasy thrones and dread the star.
The star. It moves, yet night to night the same
point of light in the aching windswept darkness,
the cold black emptiness of space.
Like you, it makes its own strange journey,
setting sail to catch the breath of God.
It finds its destination in those eyes.
Those eyes. The child sees you, and calls your name—
a name you had forgot, or did not know
you knew, a name whose riches, undeserved,
will cost you everything you have, and more.
He looks at you, and in his eyes you see
the rising and the setting of your hopes.
Your hopes. Leave them behind, these selves you carry
the journey long, like treasures of the heart;
return, then, empty-handed, knowing nothing
but the light behind the dark eyes of the child.
Be haunted by that light. It does not fade
even as the dark absorbs the star.
Darkness falls. You are night-blind, and groping.
Go home a different way, if home at all.