Black is the color of the night, of infinite space and imagination.
Black is not a color; it absorbs all the colors of the visible spectrum and reflects none of them to the eyes.
When we shut our eyes, we are not blind. We dream and awaken to the world within, exchanging sight for insight.
A poem of mine, below:
The Night, The Night...
the cinematic power in a drop of water
crashing against the stomach of a sink
smashing into iridescent pieces
scattering in resplendent shards
the torrid affair in the crease
of a week-old newspaper,
the tumbling creatures
in crumbling alabaster
unrealized populations materialize
undisguised before imperturbable eyes
creep in and out of a carpet pattern
once more irretrievable in the weave
come somber twilight hour
with its vanquished armies
a procession of angels, subdued
violent silver and violet diffused
a clandestine encounter
between a room and a candelabra
the four walls a shadow box
a profusion of unhinged imaginings
furtive fugitive figures
merge and converge
with a dark eloquence
a great whorl of specters
consecrating sacred pacts
enacting blasphemous acts
monsters of darkness
huddled here or there
shoulders and knees
crammed in corners
the night, the night
with all its bewitching might
conduit for reveries
and gently taunting madness.
© Yahia Lababidi