Heart of Darkness

The poet grips his pen,
its weight a tether to something unseen,
something clawing inside him.
He wants to write of love,
of soft births and the tender glow of dawn.
He wants to summon angels,
their wings brushing away the silence.

But his hand silently rebels.
It moves, driven by the pull of his heart,
that traitorous vessel,
and spills ink like fallen blood
dark, thick, unrelenting.
It writes not of hope,
but of shadows that stretch and swallow, consume
of demons that smirk in the margins,
of decay creeping through unseen cracks.

And he pauses, breath tight in his chest.
Why, he wonders,
did God give us eyes for beauty,
to witness the trembling grace of a leaf,
the soft curve of a smile
yet hands that betray,
that carve darkness from the light?

Why did He split the mind and the heart,
one knowing the good,
the other bound to its darker pulse?
We want the best, the poet thinks,
yet we falter, unseen.
We preach kindness,
yet our shadows curl with unspoken cruelties.
We crave forgiveness,
but hold grudges like treasured stones.

Must the sky break open?
Must angels plummet and demons rise
before we stop?
Before we change?

Or will it take the King Himself,
stepping into the chaos,
for us to bow,
to surrender this endless war
between what we see,
what we know,
and what we do?

The poet sits,
pen still trembling.
He does not write the answer,
because he does not know it.
But his heart beats on,
and the ink continues to flow.