It was a crawling, creeping darkness,
gathered up in miniscule blue bottles,
stoppered with stifled feelings of
Bottles hidden in the crevices of a
soul held captive.
And under the weights of
inadequacy, there was a bleeding heart,
alive and beating
as if nothing else in the world mattered.
A deception of life.
But stones do not have a pulse
and that meant nothing made sense.
Without learning to swim,
the whirlpool was a trap,
we discovered that it didn’t have a bottom.
Our insides defy the laws of
those truths we’ve been fed:
that the ground always stops gravity
whatever pushes us can be pushed back.
But our eyesight never failed us –
even when we wished it would –
and the distant light
was always visible.
It mocked but
promising a hope we couldn’t accept
but had always clung to.
not wanted –
that light remained.
And then there was a day.
We smashed the blue bottles
and stared at the shards.
Because feeling something
is better than being a stone.
We wish, now,
that we could’ve seen one another then.
That day when we wondered.
When the wondering terrified us
and thrilled us
more than anything else had in a while.
Maybe if we could’ve wondered together,
the ones who were brave
and the ones who were too afraid
could’ve held on to each other.
Because pain and shame
are very similar.
Both create marks.
Visibility doesn’t matter.
The darkness has a special light of it’s own:
perverting the definition of bravery.
perhaps the bravery could go both ways.
let someone else fight this –
a truer light remained.
Because then there was a day.
The first day when waking was
not a burden,
hey, how are you?
could be answered with
and the smile wasn’t a lie.
They say the sun is expanding
and will one day consume this
Light becoming fire,
eating away at the dried-out darkness.
It is like that.
And when the flames engulf one home,
they engulf them all.
It is like that,
The stones in us
are in us all.
As the spinning
it only becomes clearer
that first we are cursed
but second we are cursed together.
Even the worst that could happen
enveloped that one blessing.
not passed by.
And maybe there isn’t an escape.
Maybe there is only running –
from the black fog,
to the flaming sun.
I don’t know about you,
but don’t mind the sprint.
It is the closest I’ve been
Shall I shudder or shy away from that which I have made? Or am I not the One who told the dark how dark to be, that My great light might shine more gloriously in comparison? I hold all this together. Alone.
Tallahassee, by Abraham the Poor