“It is dark, so very dark”, said Dante, “yet you fail to speak, and I would say it not impossible that what you’d have to say would not replace that disappearing light you still claim to see”.
So here we are at last, you and me, my reader and me, and it could be that as the night comes, it will be so hard to say, I see. A darkness comes, like none before, a fortress that holds no shiny keys, and with these two feet, I walk ahead, blinder, no memory, save the elongated dusk my shattered mind, would allow to still be me.
A “Sound of Silence”, in D minor, still whatever does it mean, perhaps Paul and Art could enlighten me. But still no difference does it make for here in the West, alone, so by myself do the dusk I see. And if I write for the world what’s inside of me, how selfish would that be, indeed maybe I a narcissist to tell of this grief.
For their against that granite stone, that sky seeking temple of geology, weakens a sun in timidity. And woe it says, what you have taken for belief. This night cometh, indeed it rest here now for you with no reprieve, and you are singular, no better light, than your last memory.
“Did you come to walk with me”? The words whispered, skyward, unaccompanied and in darkness do I breath. Still, so still, only Dante resting cold inside me. For now it is a rolling obscurity, that’s colder, then any wound that has ever bled me. And it does not seem right that darkness, should belong alone, to the death of me. For that last light, the one that loved me best, somewhere, to make eternity last, it dies with me.
“Perhaps I should go too” I hear Dante say, his words fading fast, for unlike the last light of day, I should not think that even with him inside, they will probably last.
*Authors note – Dante has been a fine muse. – 08.31.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל