Language is an insatiable demand
for light which begets
the immeasurable depths of darkness.
There is a luminous light bulb
that floats above my head,
not inside it. There is no light
of mind, and language
is no light source: words fail to be
The mind is a sunless place.
History is from there, calls it home.
History is just words. It is no wonder
why it only always tells
of our darkest hours:
There is a war inside my head.
As I fight for the words, I find them
vying with the sun to illuminate
this world. My words want nothing
of the day other than to be
the very light defining it.
But words are just shadows.
No light touches them.
(No light touches me.)
And I cannot be—I cannot be
the sun, or even a ray of sunlight
no, I must mean. Language makes me
and to mean is to declare war
on words, with words; is to fight
passionately on the front line; is to confront
death and live in spite of it,
in spite of a deep dark desire for it.
But we aren’t supposed to speak
of such things.
So we dream them.