Dark Matter Saturday

The Ethereal Cloak of Comfort

Rainy days are a blessing. What would one expect
From a dark matter resident of the cosmos?
In this world few can see me except for my skin.
In the realm of the physical darkness is sin.
Particles separated that never get close
Are the heart of this structure in every aspect.

Saturdays, during winter, in this hemisphere,
Normal people look forward to. I do as well
But for different reasons I need not divulge.
On this day that keeps people in, I can indulge
In a deep dwelling disconnect far from the hell
Of all man’s machinations that curse what is here.

Whetted civilization has scant appetite
For the cold, wet, and windy. Sunshine is ideal.
But sunlight, made of photons, is denser than light
From the dark folds of all that which evades our sight
While providing cohesion to what we deem real.
It is light through the cold wherein I take delight.

Nature’s cold is a logic I well understand.
It is based on the rhythm of spatial bodies.
Time within the eternal is made for fair days
Whether weather permits, one’s own consciousness strays
From the business of living. I honor the freeze
As it comes with each cycle uniquely unplanned.

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