A little Dark.
by tobias crabtree
some are saved by the light, that is not me. i run to the dark. when the moon is new and the tides swing so grand, i am aware of the deeper darkness. and the darker things yet. in my den, wrapped in the wrappings i am disassembled into the tiny particles that make me. what must be shed: sadnessess, meannessess, bitternessess, misdeeds. all these are leached into the everloving sea of black, little boats on the delta of some sin colored river. and my heart is obsidian in these moments, not completely black, cooled at the surface of my existence. it is where tears may or may not exist, it can’t be proven either way. i depend on the dark, la madrugada. it is the only place where i need not worry about seeing and knowing, instead looking to the inside and down and down where the deeper creatures dwell. cave creatures all. lidless, sightless eyes and moon-colored membranes. memories of paths that are pictured in other ways than visual. hidden here in the heavy black i break into my chest to find what’s left, and when and if i see the stars, i hang them overhead. they are not mine, they are in us all and can’t be owned. so yeah, and where would i put the tiny lights if it weren’t for the enduring dark? a ship is formed. a course is set. and the stars lead back across the curve of the world…to the blue dawn…and the day beyond.