The Room In Darkness
written by: John Grey
Ah, the pleasures of a room in darkness,
the mind flicking a switch here, lighting a candle there,
as the visual approaches silence.
I interrogate my brain to the very last thought.
I must know what I’ve done.
Understanding can await the true light.
It’s devilry that holds me to the required task.
I move through graveyard, charnel house,
alley-way, opium den, even as no muscle budges.
I comb through the butchery of years
in an acquiescent hour.
People suffer at my hands, they die violently,
their screams, their blood,
are the echo, the stains, that keep record.
To me blackness is a ripening.
So many seeds, no wonder the depth.
And the some senses are mere distractions.
For seeing to matter, it must go to the source.
I’ve been around a long time. I’m much older than life.
And so I take stock. It’s the void’s solemn duty.
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