Solitary Dance of The Fireflies

Upon this porch, a sepulchre of peace,

Where worldly clamours and their echoes cease,

I sit enthroned within the ebon night,

A willing captive, exiled from the light

Of gaudy day, and all its fleeting cheer,

To find a truer, deeper meaning here.

For in this dark, a silent court convenes,

Of transient sparks on shady scenes.

They rise, at first, a lone and timid gleam,

The waking thought within a fevered dream.

A single pulse, a self-possessed design,

A soul-lit answer that is wholly mine.

Then more awake—a spectral, soft brigade,

That bears no banner and that wields no blade.

They kindle life within the vast profound,

On silent wings that utter forth no sound.

Each spark a victory, a truth held fast,

Against the tumult of a buried past;

Each dancing point of phosphorescent fire,

The living ghost of some fulfilled desire.

They weave a logic in their aimless flight,

A silent sermon to the solemn night.

And in their dance, my own heart finds its pace,

A steady rhythm in this peaceful place.

Let others crave the temporary fame,

The hollow warmth of some communal pyre.

My world is here, where glowing thoughts ascend,

And solitude becomes a faithful friend,

Whose silent countenance, I learn to see,

Is lit by phantoms, born of night, and me.