in the dark that turns upon itself

(Photo: Freeman Patterson)

in the dark that turns upon itself

raindrops fall like melancholy,
wrench the numb relief of disconnection,
stir the recollections we can’t bear
(whisp’ring: maybe if we huddle very still )
of what’s been lost
(then they won’t see us here )
within our stark and solitary cell
(and then perhaps they’ll go away )
a thousand miles beneath reality

there should be names to call
the colours that we see so clearly
we become a part of them:
deluge grey and wetleaf green —
the weight of water droops the world
so everything is
down-
cast

why can we not be good enough at least
to those who cannot understand
the gnawing from inside, the yawning emptiness
that grinds our peace of mind to dust?

there is no comfort in the dark
nor in the glare of streetlamps,
reading lights, television screens,
distractions from the emptiness
that will not go away:
at least in darkness there’s
the seratonin drip, the dim flicker
of awareness — we say, please, not again,
so tired of not being able to say
no more