Like the insect to the light, quite the opposite here.
In this duskless place, in this non shadow realm, they find the new shade beautiful.  
But why?
More and more of them were filling the room.  
Seeking out the darkest of dark.
The shadow of shadows.
The shade of shades.   I then realize that these little beautiful creatures are looking for the source.  They are looking for me.

I run about the room from corner to corner.  The little pattern shaped insect like creatures were getting closer and closer to me.  I did not want to touch such a beautiful being made of infinite light.  I don't know what my shadow touch would do to them. Would it **** them? Would it hurt them?  But then I find myself feeling as though they want to be touched. As if my darkness is their salvation.  The former light room now looked as if a bucket of black paint exploded inside of a white room.  There was shadow steps everywhere as well as shadow marks on the walls. It was not long after that The room was almost completly black with darkness.  The light insect like creatures looked like stars in space. I was the darkness they rolled on.   It soon got to the point where I was cornered.  The room was now filled with these beautiful creatures.  All of which knew I was in the corner of the room.  It was the only corner where light was left. As soon as that part of the room dimmed they all flew into me.  They swirled and spiraled around me.  It was amazing! It reminded me of a galaxy.  I opened my hand and one of them landed on it. There was then a beautiful shine and sound.  Then a voice uttered two words.  " Thank you."   The creature was gone.  Then I felt someone hold my hand!

Just a girl from the prairie
Alone I face my adversary
Fear not in my vocabulary

Never once can I raise my hackles
For fear of attracting the jackals

Living life out on the edge
Seeking strength, the depths of me I dredge
Always stand tall, this my solemn pledge

Tis by my wits alone I survive
Circumstances most could not contrive

My life hard but no complaint
Good and true of heart, but I'm no saint
Mascara and lipstick my war paint

Of my life I shall not be cheated
My struggle never completed
I will never be defeated

Love, such an abstract thing.
Spread across a canvas.
Made seen by the help of brush bristles.
A vivid depiction of clear bottles made a mess.
I hope your not afraid of painting with ***** hands.
The feel of paint staining clean hands.
Here.
No one is innocent.
Not even the canvas which is neither seen nor heard

Her brush slides
across the paper.
As she looks down
at the creation,
Her face filled with
Pain.
Sorrow.
Lonliness.
She is searching......
As the brush spreads
black paint...
She stares down,
Upon the artwork.
Unable,
to find.
What she is looking for.

stain her lips with your kisses,
but do not paint her face with your anger.
rage does not fit in romance,
too many letters have gone missing,
and too many souls gone silent.
let her skin be canvas untouched,
caressed out of love for the unknown,
stroked with a soft touch.
forget what callused the tips of your bristles -
there will always be another sunset to capture tomorrow,
and an artist is nothing without good supplies and good ideas.
but she is not a paintbrush,
a tool you get to control -
make her your muse instead of a tattered sketchbook page.
take her weeping from the background of a dark forest,
to the foreground of the sun rising on a soft-sanded new tomorrow -
take her into your arms,
mold her sweetly, gently into your heart,
and allow the clay to harden and heal any cracks still exposed.
a woman is a work of art on her own,
ready to be appreciated -
there is no need to change her beauty,
only a craving to be a part of it.

I came home exhausted and road weary and
tried my key in the door but it wouldn’t turn.

The locks had changed.
I noticed then
that the trim around the windows was green instead of yellow.
Through the glass
I saw the rooms scattered with unfamiliar furniture.

I wondered if I was dreaming but I wasn’t.
I had, in fact, just awoken from a sleep of many years.

I knew then that I would never come home again.

So it was with her.

Dear kid you are the picture
of heart on well worn sleeve.
You oiled every wave of
raw emotion
and etched it on your own face.

Each time you draw a tear
the cascades fill your sorry eyes.
Far cry from masterpiece,
or symphony
but your truest portrait caught in time.

I do not understand how they do it,
having so much thought that they invented
an entire universe of elements,
components and small fixtures of greater
workings. Those incredible, beautiful
scientists, with their steam-crimped hair and curious
eyes; the wonderfully inventive mathematicians
who ponder over all knowledge in order
to realise something new - that is what
true beauty is. Chemistry, physics, biology
and maths are their own art forms, and what they
seek to create is more beautiful than my
words and paintbrush can ever dream.