This might be the first poem where I actually felt something that I thought would be best expressed through poetry. It is best read slowly, which might be true of all poetry now that I think of it.
A room dark as a moonless night
Reveals nothing; strengths or flaws
To senses naught but empty void
Where nothing is and nothing was.
Out of the dark a flame appears
And light bathes linen, tallow, oak
With carvings, weavings, nothing bare
See inspiration’s toil, bespoke
Then candle peeks past table’s edge
To glimpse dark figures, framed in light
The candle shrinks to see them there
In dreams it feels them sting and bite
The candle now must make a choice
What energy is this flame worth?
When light brings shadows as a curse
And darkness is return to birth.
The candle ceases feeding flame
Darkness returns without a pause
No weavings, oak, nor tallow seen
Here nothing is and nothing was.
I am not tallow, wick or flame
Yet could I offer the same light
I’d burn, and face the shadows too
So I can share my soul’s delight.