The Beauty of Darkness [poem]

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Some think of light as love
and, by implication,
they must think of dark as hate;
while those who think that
light equates with truth
must, by inferential logic,
think that dark is only lies.
Still others soundly say that
light is representative of
knowledge sacred or profane
and thereby do assert that
ignorance and darkness
are from tributary veins.

But I have seen the other land
which some would style as night
and know that if it had no life
there would be none of what
we blandly dub as light.
The quest for holy grails
and adventures of the soul —
if we be true to exploration’s
evolutionary role in making
hardly-little-fledglings find their
wings and all those other things
within which need to blossom —
will inevitably take us into
dark and direly danger places
swathed in mystery’s freaky
glow enhanced with feckless
traces foreign to our lightish
everydayful playful undergrowth.

The psalmist sweetly singsongs:
Even though I walk without one
single heaving breath across
the lowest deepest valley in the
shadows of the staining dirt of death
there is no need for fear and other
thoughts which steal the lovely day
of weary travellers who tread along
this rugged way. For strength comes
quick to those who will embrace
the analgesic gift bestowed on
sojourningly jaded souls which flow.

Thus the beautiness of darkness
deftly makes its poi[gna]nt [thrust]
through teaching lonely lowly us
the multi-petalled hard-ingrained
in metal truth that dualism’s voice
(inherently arranged throughout
creation’s drunken trumpet tunes)
presents us with a signpost choice;
and if it’s light we always choose
(by trust in forces eyes can never see)
it does not matter where or how or
why we tread through darkness
as a necessary earthsome fantasy
for reaching through the night
becomes, to our surprise, our day.

© Alan Morrison, 2016

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