The outside world seems far away,
The light a memory.
I can't recall the feel of wind
Or salty taste of sea.
My home is darkness, shadowed halls
That taunt the waking mind.
A prison crafted of despair
That serves so well to bind.
And here I've stayed for many years.
The shadows are my friends,
The silence offers me its ears,
And darkness comprehends
My every need, but still I yearn
To taste, to touch, to feel.
That strange place purged of shame and hate
Is everything but real.
But if I go back to the light,
Will it not burn my eyes?
And would not wind and substance aim
To muffle my lone cries?
At least in here, I know my mind,
And I can love my ways.
The magnitude of all outside
Obscures the endless days.
And though the light seems good from here,
I know the burning flame
Would swift consume my best of friends
If here it ever maimed.
So why should I subject my life
To order and degree?
Would then my valuable?
It would not be to me.
I will dream of better times,
When I can bask in gold,
But now the horrors of that world
Are worse than here ten fold.
I rather would to live my life,
And live it for myself.
If there I go, the light will flare
And bolt me to the shelf
That holds the endless "minds of light".
They surely lack true form,
For all the light is just the same
As that which came before.
7/26/04
Review