A Man in Darkness, by John Grey
The night has never been less incremental.
It got black so sudden like someone punched me.
All the birds are blackbirds. All the trees
are black birch when they’re trees at all.
Mostly, they’re just this one dark thing called forest,
unseen, rustling, staring down my blindness.
Lucky, I’ve still got myself and all the life within.
I can hear my heart beat. I can think, imagine, remember.
I can even touch my flesh, know that everything
is in its place. I can even make noise, speak.
My vision goes beyond a solitary man
pacing the unholy murk of this unwelcome turn of the earth.
The sky is nothing but gloomy depths,
All the fields are shadow. All the houses are homes of the dead.
But a man looms clear in the bleakness, the gloom.
His life’s no dimness. Nor are his feelings drear.
He passes through this night, his soul lit like a runway.
Depression, your hours are numbered. I am that man.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Stillwater Review and Big Muddy Review with work upcoming in Louisiana Review, Columbia College Literary Review and Spoon River Poetry Review.