Not the darkness that stars bathe in
Not the brain illness that requires saving
Not the dark mist in Niflheim, world of nothingness
It is the murk where sound is undefined,
even suffocated. It is that which requires courageous work
to walk. Weight on the skin insidiously created
in such silence a ringing comes upon ya
darkness so deep your eyes imagine cosmic swirls
to ward off atrophy. Blood hurls
in a trivial rush to your phalanges bilaterally;
hurrying is moot, for the darkness emulsifies time into mush.
It’s where defenses never stay, where the individual is reduced,
where adults become children, where all darkness amalgamates
into a Darkness that kills some.
