Ghost Lights

As I walk down the street

On a hot spring night,

I am overcome with a sense of longing.

A longing for the bright lights that drive our lives

To turn off and go to sleep.

Why is it that when we are in the dark,

Do we have to spread light in all directions?

Do we fear that the unknown will engulf us,

That the long-dead monsters will, somehow, re-emerge?

As these questions played with my mind and soul,

I reached a hole in the light, and oblivious paradise,

Where the powers of uncertainty dwelled freely,

Where I could be one with the darkness and fear and mystery.

Home.

To most, the dark is a place

Where there are demons older than trees

But I am not one of those people,

‘Cause the light was never meant for me.