La Luz Que Me Lleva Ahora

Holding a flashlight in a dark room the size of which we’ll never know, we’ll never touch the walls.  
The ceiling is hardly seen but the floor is known well, like the skin on the face of the one we loved the most.  
We take that flashlight and turn the top until the beam is broad and yet, nothing.  
Nothing but the ability to see that we cannot see.  
We turn the head again to sharpen it’s focus and suddenly, vividly, sight.  
Not everything, only what’s important, what matters then.  
It lasts for a moment and a moment is enough
It’s there.  
Now.  
And it can be seen until we need to know what matters next.  
Not all images in the vast room are pleasing to the soul -some of them are downright hellish
but we cherish those to.  
We’ve learned that we are,
each one of us
in our own room
with our own flashlight,
each beam more narrow than the last
until we’re all going mad when
someone opens the door and in and effortless act,
flips on the switch:
A thousand bodies in a temple we’ve made
All looking for batteries in a world that suddenly needs none

and never did.

Amy, do you know how many lights you’ve turned on in the dark rooms of others?
I can tell you one thing, this is the sound you’ve put into the temples glowing bright: