The only streetlight for miles.
A lone standing work of art.
Moths flutter and bugs’ trials
to get into the light, use all their heart.
The vast black horizon
is filled with monsters and demons.
A place known to wisen
those who can find enough esteem in
their emotional fortitude
to take shadows to heart,
and let the blackness intrude
like a night’s work of art.
Those that stroll through black clouds
didn’t choose this jail sentence.
A mind that tortures out loud,
life feeling painfully defenseless.
There may be hope that still sings
I pray that it does.
Because in that darkness with things
I roam clenching my jaws.
I can see that lone light
I seem to walk circles around.
Hope’s singing just might
lead me to glowing ground.

~kb