It’s dark outside and lonely,
the wind whispering through the trees
seems to make fun of my silence.
The gentle patter of water against pavement,
a laughing prod at my deserted heart.
The moon, with her aching pull, is covered by clouds
and I am alone in the night, seemingly abandoned
with only darkness as my companion.
The storm doesn’t rage but inundates, insinuates itself
through hidden cracks and seeps through locked doors
to smother everything with the oppressive dark dampness.
The only cure seems to be the relentless tick tocking,
that talking voices echo with the same tired words
but time is slave to no man, nor woman and plods on
slowly, as if too, stuck in the muddy moroseness of the moment
the future is distant, only dimly desired and and duly doubted.
But when hope like a bird of myth brought low seemed ready to die
a match was struck and a candle flickered on.
The light weak and wavering from side to side in the storm
and hands, unused to movement spring to the rescue
covering the coveted flame and capturing the meager light
which sparked the internal flames with with flickering dance
mirroring the freshly beating heart which drummed
the ticking clock the metronome for the song of sadness being composed.
Not as a mourning dirge but as a celebration of life and experience
as I sit in the darkness holding a candle and waiting for the storm to pass.