The Wealth of Night

A prose poem by Kristopher Heaton

Everything Else | | April 24, 2016

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   Our first night on a business trip that Dad brought us to saw us enjoy dinner at a house belonging to a development partner of Punta Cana. To call it a house would be modestly shying away from envy and wonder toward what I was so lucky to see.  The structure is carried on cylinders of perfect marble, columns that attempt to wear the moonlight and make silver, though the glint of lunar beauty is no exception to the sight to behold.  A pool overlooking the sea, black as ebony with the light of the moon stretching as far as the eye can see, gives good rest to restless feet.  The halls outside the dining room miss out on only gardens to overlook, a stroll through them like a tour through old royalty as noble as the lords of the Ottoman Empire.  Torch holders, a color of flawless darkness, carry flames that adorn the outdoor halls in an impassioned hue.  Palm trees stand underneath the labyrinth of stars watching the land, offering the pure fruits of the Garden of Eden, no temptation of the Serpent welcome.  The villa doesn’t stand tall, but it defies the rise of industry with a resolute march in Mediterranean antiquity, an iron throne forever adamant within halls of greenery and starlight.

 

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