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By Aya Martin '27

The moon moves into the center of the sky 

outside the window, a fantasmic prophecy 

of death and the decaying magic of light in 

darkness. The notion of brightness that 

blinds reality. A spark of light is comforting 

when all you have is a dark room that 

hordes the brain. The spark can also be a 

snake, a superficial suggestion to leave the 

dark and into a twisting forest of decay. A 

wandering wonder of relief or maybe just a 

rouse of a jokester. The light sky crowds 

my judgment, it takes my eyes again, l inch 

closer to it and I fall into an orange and red 

igniting abyss, divinity overtakes the war. it 

was the summer that I went away.