I used to see the dark of night as a place to hide my battles.
A blanket of comfortable absence for the absent joy.
Void of color, visual stimulation and value
where solitude made a home.
If the rain had fallen, a reflective shimmer would arise,
granted light did appear.
Black glass on streets of sorrows;
deceptive thoughts of promising tomorrows.
Hiding in a canopy of fear, I’d rely on the hatred to keep me dry.
When morning came mourning came.
The cloud I could not see the night before, again hung above,
greeting me and sharing its tears with mine.
Fear was the truth and dark the shelter.
In contrast I thought dark had an alluring advantage, and the rain a hope,
but would I know the light without dark
or wet without dry?