Brave the Night

My Sun has set on this place,

This place that once reminded me of home,

Leaving it stripped 

Of warm light,

Of heartening color.
Now that my beacon is gone,

I grope in the darkness of 

This serpents’ hunting ground,

This whispering ghosts’ lair.
No more does a flower raise its head here;

No more birdsong is heard amidst the boughs—

There’s naught to soothe my senses,

Naught to allay my fears,

Naught to give me a grain of hope. 
The cold surrounds me 

Like a band of menacers.

Its sting is merciless, painful…

And I fear its evil might. 
Maybe I can try running,

But I fear my path sports 

A litter of sharp, blood-hungry stones

And a scatter of brambles.
This night is too long

And too full of terrors. 

When do you intend returning,

My dearly beloved Sunshine?

These fiends will fly far 

At the sight of your splendor. 
Your coming is certain,

That much do I know.

I’ll see the flowers bloom,

I’ll hear the birds once more.

But ‘tween then and now,

I must brave the night alone.


Sunless Rooms

Will I, one day, with tentative hands, find the resolve To draw aside my heavy black drapes

And let the sunlight in again?
Will guilt molest my heart for the need or the deed?

For not retracting those hands that drew the drapes aside? 
Seeing it as I might, after a month of Sundays,

Will I shield my eyes from it, 

Or teach myself to behold it anew? 
That sunlight, I wonder, if it will swallow up the darkness

Or merely disguise it in golden splendor? 
There are places, strange places, 

Where the sun forgets to shine every once in a while,

Where sunlight can’t hide every blotch of darkness. 

Those places, those sunless rooms, exist inside me.


The room is dark.A staccato click,
A momentary spark.

Not Hope.

Death’s deceitful warmth is inhaled.

Ghosts, like mist, only hot,

Egress living orifices like they were 

Slinking out of sepulchers. 
The room is depressing.

A glimmer in the dark,

The reflection of a pulsing bright spark.

Not Relief. 

Death is corked in green glass.

There is a transfer from

One container to another –

A container susceptible to breakage.
The room is dreary.

A pop, the ground seems to evanesce 

The air feels lighter.

Not Ecstasy. 

Swirls of exhilarating air enter from cracked crooks and crevices.

Contaminated pipelines are further fouled,

Clogged with venom like nightshade berries –

Heretical prayer beads Death invoking. 
 The room, one day, fell still and went cold.