i'm gonna try to accustom my self to discomfort
born privileged, first-world country,
what more ugly words can one let out her tongue
till she realises that imperfection is perfect
and just to have another breath
and feel the wind against one's skin
how beautiful it is to live
maybe its times like this
when you're only with yourself
memories of everyone you ever met
return to your presence of mind.
yet, do your thoughts of them
reflect your significance in their lives?
perhaps we tend to impose our importance
on those we remember most
for me, maybe one more thing to learn today:
the only reality of my existence.
in my insignificance.
and my triviality.
no one remembers, and why should they?
you're alone, my friend.
We grow accustomed to the Dark—
When light is put away—
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness her Goodbye—
A Moment—We uncertain step
For newness of the night—
Then—fit our Vision to the Dark—
And meet the Road—erect—
And so of larger—Darkness—
Those Evenings of the Brain—
When not a Moon disclose a sign—
Or Star—come out—within—
The Bravest—grope a little—
And sometimes hit a Tree
Directly in the Forehead—
But as they learn to see—
Either the Darkness alters—
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight—
And Life steps almost straight.