Musing over dark matter.

The Dark.

It is but isn’t there.
Like the shadow someone leaves after they die.
Shadows,
shadows that dance in the blank pages of the universe.
I see the sky at night.
Looking out from my desk or from my bedroom window,
I see its splendour.
It doesn’t have any gaps or chapters missing.
Yet, escaping the streams of light,
which stretch through space
and time,
it is there.
Like invisible dust,
trapped in the corners,
filling up the parts in and between.
Its nothingness is great, and full of everything,
but an everything we can’t see.
Patches of negative in a world full of gleaming positive,
it lingers, quiet, still.
If the cities were quiet, and the lights were dim,
would it shine out?
If we closed out the noise would it resonate
across light-years, through stars?
Hush, I can hear its whisper now, in the deep black
it is at our ears.
And even though it doesn’t burn like supernovas,
or scatter like how a planet shatters,
the Dark is
and truly, infinitely, matters.

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