Amber Without the Sun

Without the sun, amber is just weight.
Golden, yes, but hollow—
a memory with no breath in it.

The light that once moved through it
is gone.
No shimmer. No warmth.
Only the trace of something that once belonged to the world.

Consciousness is like that—
the quiet lamp in the chest,
the one light behind every gaze.
When it’s here, the world hums.
Leaves tremble in your veins.
Time bends, generous.

When it’s gone,
even beauty feels abandoned.
The body moves, but without the current
that makes movement mean anything.

To tend this light is devotion.
It’s how the infinite
slips into form
and remembers itself.

Amber without the sun
is only stone.
But with it—
it becomes a vessel
for the spirit to pass through.