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?

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