Black is the paint that covers night
Where crops won’t grow
Nor harvest sown
But there Aurora fully blooms,
Dancing where shy constellations’ plume
Curling, swirling across the moon
Like a living, magic fume
Worshiping the midnight suns
When night and day mix as one.
Black is the space in-between
In the heavens of which we dream
To travel to in great cosmic galleons
Because Black is the universe’s greatest ocean.
If you like this poem, try: https://abeliamayblog.wordpress.com/2017/11/13/waste/