Darkness (Or, Writing while under guard by the Inquisition)
Darkness can become weighty,
an elephantine encumberance that descends.
It never ascends, never comes up from the floor to envelope us at the waist and creep its inexorable way into our throat and down, down, down to our belly, where it boils and sours.
It always falls from the absence of light. Must come from the place where the sun fills our minds. So darkness descends.
Darkness can become terrifying,
a cacophony of noises just outside of hearing,
a myriad of shapes just outside of seeing.
They congeal and dissolve on the edges and peripheries of non-sight,
bleeding into our eyes and up into our brains.
Darkness can become comforting,
when you can feel it soften just a smidge.
Turning from an anvil on our heads and a cloud in our throat into a downy pillow and a velvety coverlet.
When you cannot see the light, yet the darkness begins to gather itself, begins to prepare for its retreat into the corners and under the eaves, and just around the next bend. Darkness will stroke you as it leaves, leaving a reminder of itself as it endows you with the warming, perhaps coming, light.
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