Darkness

Neither good nor bad and passing sides no heed.

“Evil” loves the shadows best, to hide in wait of prey. Yet the smartest ones stand hidden in the sun’s golden rays.

“Good” loves to flaunt in the light and reveal their deeds to all. But the truly selfless work in the dark, helping until they fall.

Darkness is a sanctuary to the introvert yet a cause of their despair. A place of rest, yet sometimes depression’s hidden lair.

A place of fear or inspiration depending on the mind. A new occurrence every night is something you will find.

The dark is filled with emotions poured from numerous hearts. Like breaking tides it rages until at dawn it parts.

In the light they wear their masks and perform their little play. One, two. One, two. They dance their part until in the dark they lay.

Resting from their performance and pouring out their hearts once more. Soon the release of the dark they begin to adore.

Here we leave them resting in the dark. With hope, as there is also healing in it’s gentle mark.

The mind’s blade is sharp, but jagged and thorned.

The entry wound is small, but inside the body is torn and sawed away.

The blade splits like a Katar each reaching for vital organs.

Aiming to wound if not kill.

With a push and pull motion the body is ripped, losing it’s hold on it’s previous form.

Barely clinging to life, but desperately so. As it’s lifeblood, or in the Stoic’s case emotions try to flow freely from the wounds.

The Stoic steels his will and barricades as much as he can so the least amount can leave. While the body still bleeds and the damage was done.

The wounds will heal, they usually do. But the Stoic won’t be the same as the scars change the landscape.

He claims it’s art, that shows his travels and hardships, but at times you can see the light waver in his eyes. A weight unspoken seems to sit there, behind those eyes. In a moment he smiles and laughs. The light regains it’s shape and hides the weight behind. As the Stoic stands up to get on his way.

Before he leaves he asks one question, “Do you have anything you want me to carry?”

A man is akin to fire when his spark of life ignites, vulnerable to the elements and feeble in its strength.

Each participates in life’s struggle engaging in their fights, unknown of just how long is each candle wicks length.

Wax and wane from wind and rain both face hardships galore, then being snuffed out at an unknown time though they left their mark before.

The wax has melted, the wick is gone, as the fuel lasts no more, but each left their marks where they traveled before each with a story that’s stored.

The beauty of seeing mortality, a thing that waxed and waned. Seeing the strength of fighting through each new day.

Memories though that might in recalling be pained, are important to hold close and not keep at bay.

There is power in the warmth of brief memories, the reality in the mortality of fire and man.