don’t worry; even my thirty-four years choke
at the breach of darkness. a fact
of a life in contrasts, mum said—
that we may more appreciate the light.
but as i shivered—near convulsing—
in my waking dreams at 2am today, my sins
grew brutish and i poured out sweat.
i remembered lies of omission and wanton
pain—revenge on brothers, sex in traitorous
passion, ideas pilfered. sins that burned
through me like a pyre. it was hard to remember
if i was good at all—until it
dawned on me, in a breath of soaked lucidity:
what if, i comforted, darkness is no equal
to light but a passenger within it?
an equal stumbler, a lost soul in his own night.
we are the same, then, he and i,
two things that must trundle through
to the other side. and in that revelation,
my eyes poured shut, knowing
the darkness and i were impossibly