The dark

I claim to be a writer.

Yet I sit idly where I sit,

Breathing feeling like a heavy burden,

Weighing on my shoulders,

Boulders.

I am glass.

Intangible, invisible.

Not hiding in the corners,

Not lurking in the dark,

Just existing.

Just existing.

Have always been,

Almost, I suppose.

I said I love the dark.

Not because I see the light,

Perhaps light is what we always seek.

But I,

'Twas the moon I sought.

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