Lucid is an interesting word to use;

it often describes clarity, not light,
as if these things are equally diffuse
in this space touched in the front of my sight:
But light is heavy with insight sometimes,
and I'm feeling lucid on that level,
like words on a page that speak their own rhymes,
or like a taste raised by the tongue's shovel:
I'm beaming up, in other people's words,
though in foreign hearts, I arrest the flow,
due to a presence or taste left past curbs
on the king's road because green means to go:
I traffic in light, red, yellow, and green
when skies are blue or black, or in-between.
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