A night, blue lit.
A blue unlike the sea where stars and suns are woven into.
A blue tapestry of history of remembrance of graves.
As we gaze upwards to see, what do we see but a reflection of a reflection of the countless souls that have similarly gazed upon the very same sight.
And do you not hear the whispers, consoling those lost in the midst of life, silenty humming hym.
Which of us are so mute to it that we would look on those that hear it as mad and insane, as much as though the truth it is.
Know that those nights stretch upon the world, like a blanket to keep us warm from the light.
A light that brings us to the stage to act, become someone else, and to go wherever.
From that light, a blanket blue thrown over us to keep us to be us.
Which we are given to believe that it is us and the world.
Alone.
Whom the blanket we hold tight, each across the stretch of the world, never wanting to let go.
And in that moment, the kinship of mourning faces are closer than ever was before.
A blue beyond the world, to see, to hear, to feel, and so that we soothe.
Grieve are we when that blue becomes hue.