In Darkness I Write

My bedroom is immense, searing in summer, icy in winter.
A great bed is framed in light of a great window that mirrors it,
Two lamps reflect each other beside the bed,
And a painting covers the wall above the bed, casting shadow.

However, no shred of light finds its way in now,
For it is only in darkness that I write.
And in the shadows of the startling inconstant beam, the great bed looks terrible,
Wilted. Like it was a flower, too late to quench its thirst.

No whisper of the beam touches the bed, or my body
So I close thick, heavy drapes to ensure it.
The solitude, the isolation, the darkness.
The never ending black of night, the love of life and the bane of existence.

For it is in darkness that I write.