Light is not fun.

It is not a dilettante.

It is a witness,

a revealer of reality,

touching all things that stand in it

faster than thought

and mapping their contours

for all to see.

A little gives warmth,

penetrating bone deep.

A lot can burn,

reducing anything to ashes.

Diffuse it drives out the shadows,

until there is no place to hide.

Focused it can cut through steel.

Don’t mock it.

Darkness is simply its absence,

the place where the pleasant people flee

to take off their masks

and be unsearched

in their sickness of soul.

That is why it seems so real,

because it’s where you will find people without their lies,

but you will still need your own light

to see what they look like.

Light is a healer,

a purifier,

driving out infection and disease.

Light is a builder,

a grower,

the source of power for all that is green.

Light is a destroyer,

a killer,

wearing down whatever it touches that can be consumed.

Without light darkness is simply a place to die,

to huddle in heartache

as the last of the heat drains out

and the burning cold moves in.

It is not the light’s fault if people know how to bend it

twist it

and hide behind something it can’t penetrate.


Perhaps what you truly want is shade,

the comfort when something stands between you

and a level of light that would wash you away in a blaze.

Look to the sky and see its beauty,

in the clouds that dance with the sunlight,

as they cover your face with their mercy,

and know that it can be yours.

(This poem is a response to Sand-Filled Soap Bubbles by whoever runs the blog Darkness. Find it here: )


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