An ekphrastic poem I had to do. Aka a poem about a piece of art.

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The light is scarce,

emitting from only the sky and a lone fixture.

The streets tell you

midnight, yet the sky whispers

noon. Two moments exist as one.

Down below it may be dusk and yet

there is someone awake. Perhaps they know,

they know of the ruse.

While everyone sleeps they are awake,

so they must see the truth

of what time it truly is.

In this "empire" of "light,"

where do you find the light?

Do you see the empire?

Perhaps it is all shrouded in the darkness

or maybe it sits up in the clouds.

A heavenly boundary for sure,

and few are allowed access.