Matte and colorless, not black,
nor any shade of gray, is my Dark.
Even without gesture, no nuance other than
its lack of supposed visual,
to touch, taste, or smell within Dark’s embrace
slams sensory experience into me with vitality,
vast and vigorous.
How often needless is Light, the glow of clouds and snow
kissed by Sun, or the angled ray that would allow me
to perceive the hairs rise on your arm at my touch
in the Dark?
Why do you turn your eyes from Light
when it glares into your face? You close them
when you kiss me, when you smell a rose,
taste the finest sustenance. Close them now,
join me where there is no jangle of what may be real,
the Hall of Mirrors reflection of what you perceive
all your Its to be.
Beneath your present gaze exists Life I have created
from that you might curse, as you search,
with candle lit, for something you cannot hold,
if broken by once precious Light,
like silence crashed.