The Voice of the Darkness
I shanít forget the moment the light died.
The glow of the candle pinched;
the stout wick breathes out
a fluttering string of smoke in defiance of death.
But it was time to die.
It was, time to breathe to death.
What do we all think,
When we allow our glowing selves to perish into the dark?
They say ghosts notice candlelight,
attracted to the luminescence like a moth.
Now, the candle wax solidifies and becomes cold;
no more tears of our glowing warmth.
I may be too optimistic concerning death;
the coldness of the dark
excites me as a poet.
I too, can glow in self-bereavement.
No more flickering of light
with the shadows morphing wildly over my stone-carved face,
no, this face now breathes in darkness
as a taciturn.
A voice needs no illumination;
just reticence amongst others around me so,
I too can have a voice!
This is where and how itíll have to be.
in the darkness,
void of the glow,