The darkness exists;

it does not have to be imagined.

If I forget it,

it remains, a stain of shadow

under my feet,

at the nape of my neck,

leaking through my heart.

When we would lock the darkness

away from us with facsimiles of light,

we only feed its falseness.

Striking a match

on the wall of my flesh, I see,

after the pop and flare have dwindled,

after-images of my face

receding into night.

The darkness exists

and is more than our ignorance of light

and is more than the shadows cast

by our pride and fear.

Yet the true star is kindled,

a straight blaze of sun

before which darkness flees

and gathers itself

into its own shadow.

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