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.
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.
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.
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.