lucidly absent in my darkest hour . . .

I return to that of me

that bequests anyone’s presence

yet returns empty,

returning to me.

who created the curtains

to the limited vision of light

all as a work in progress,

returned to me?

I as audience

turn first facing outward

then that presence in turn

turns to face me

as it now returns to me.

a turmoil of voices

are boiling below cognition,

as a preoccupation

vacant without a stir.

insistence is mocking my mood

with projection.

I want to speak out

with bustling conviction

but there is no resounding

substance in my voice,

but I have no backup

of deep affirmations to reside

so what I diffusively say

in this moment

stays deflatedly in this moment

until another moment comes,

that moment

has its own emotion and context.

I am then an inhabitant of right then.

my darkness fills the cracks

between these moments.

the smaller and more compact

the moments,

the greater the cracks appear

until no moment is refuge

nor distraction, nor levity

from this dark gravy

as a slow seepage of time

but every listless measure

of my darkness

passing over

as a width of dark sky

to my dreams

is as separate to me as an intruder.

I am all the space

between knocks at the door.

I have three phone lines

into my senses

and trust none of them to answer

in my darkest hour.

I am digging my own grave,

while even the dirt from then

becomes indifferently lonely

through my hands,

but I am a song worth singing

that is deeply sung to me.

I repeat it to myself

and there is unrewarded zest.

there is unguaranteed life

before me.

there is an uncomplicated freedom

in simple stance.

in this darkness

there are no shadows

just simple unjustified light.

one candlepower . . .

that would be me.

I return to here often

and step forward into my light

one candlepower . . .

and no less.

I provide for myself each time

in this return . . .

from where I am lucidly absent.