The Bright

I have seen the dark. I have

seen the light.

I know which one I prefer.

One preferably without

shadows.

Especially the ones not yet

embraced.

The ones that have no face.

That don’t rhyme.

Gnarled roots. Scorched

earth. Blackened sky.

Crow calls out in the distance.

But I am the light.

Even underneath my quilt

they contort my night.

The mind as blank canvas. The

unconscious painter.

Painting Jungian landscapes

too frightening to mention.

Love. Love. Love is nowhere

to be seen.

Joy. Joy. Joy is not even a

dream.

I promised not to rhyme.

But rhyme comforts me like

the light.

Sings a song of the great dark

night.

That I traversed through in

order to see the bright.

The sunlight calls me.

Love waits by a river.

I have seen the light.

The Light. The Light. The Light.

.

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