And what is this darkness?
What is thy claim?
Where is the hold you ought to have?
Nay, thy claim, the notion that you are pain,
That you are hideous and awful,
These boasts are but folly.
You are comfort.
Into darkness one might slip,
Never seeing, void of feeling,
Never aware, never seething,
Just drifting to places from which one cannot see
Darkness what a comfort you could be.
What a balm.
There is no comfort.
No blessed pitch’ed black.
Only the gleam of light that cannot be reached.
Only the fingertips stretching out, shaking with rage and need and angst,
Only the voiceless cry of desire, of willing wings to sprout and to fly to the light of her!
Only the shaking of the foundations of the mind as the whirling imagination tells tales that cannot be, that will not be, that rip the soul.
Oh! For the blessed womb of night!
Oh for the encapsulation of senseless void.
Darkness is respite from this untouchable light…