hwithumalut

I am feasting in a local soccer pitch, before summer falls, close to my home by a short walk without a flashlight to wield. It is an expanse of cool black grass and the background’s cricket calls, a scene of nature’s awe, in a human cleared field.

I feast on the colors of the world. Above the shadow treeline is a faint yellow-pink, In the middle meeting a rich blue and together they whirled. all stains on Nyx’s cloak of night and gray ink

I feast on lights of passing and stationary machines, like stars up close. The road reflects a car’s eyes as white as magazine molars. A beautiful sun halo, or lens flare on my eye emits from a looming lamppost, The halo's inside is a patterned prism. White light phoenixing, to many colors.

But up close the grass is green, their darkness only a surfacing scrimmage. The car lights are really yellow more like my own fangs than something in the stars and the pretty pink taint in the sky is from my device, a bright phony afterimage. Though still some cones of shine come in great waves through the field's fence from the cars.