There is a crack in my ceiling.

There is a crack in my ceiling.
Sometimes, late at night, a light shines through.
In the dark, trapped below, my eyes are drawn upward to that eldritch haze.

From where does this light emerge?
Soft, what light through yonder crack breaks?
The hue is different.  This light is ancient, tired, has traveled across dimensions to reach this place.

At times, I am overwhelmed.
Deadlines at work, issues at home, familial and familiar frustrations.
At these times, I gaze up, into that baleful glow, and am relieved.

The light doesn't care about my problems.
The light doesn't care about day or night or deadlines.
The light doesn't care about time, about eons passed between the lonely galaxies.

Once, overcome by a fit of boldness, I fetched a ladder.
I put my eye to that crack, staring out of my prison into the light.
My eye, wild and desperate, drank in the sights it beheld.

Perhaps someday I will give up on my mundane life.
Climb up, break open that crack in the ceiling, and unleash what I saw upon the world.
For on that ladder, staring across time . . .

. . . I saw dragons.

And the dragons looked back at me.