…the flowers of darkness

I am no stranger to this decadent place
it has a magnetism, a primal pull, that calls to the lost and broken
to those whose pain or unrequited love
in the light of day, must remain unspoken
those who walk seen, but yet unseen, their burden theirs alone
a weight that grows incrementally
with every lonely step that they take
until they are crushed beneath the load
the only option, the only solution, to seek the solace of darkness
a place absent of judgement, a strange dichotomy of solitude
and the seething crowds of life
here the air is thick and heavy, with the taste of unfulfilled longing
that you know can never be quenched
the darkness has its own rhythm, a drumbeat, slow and steady
it resonates with your pulse
echoes through your veins, until it feels a part of you
as you, become a part of this place, and all that surrounds you
everything here is magnified, for in the darkness there is beauty
a quiet beauty only revealed by your soul
born out of pain and longing and an ache, to be a part of something
this place will consume you, but it is in these dark hours
that you will find your true self, raw and unfiltered
rising from the depths into light
here in the dark hours, the moon rises, the moon sets
the tides flow, the tides ebb
the veils of night, are mournfully drifting
caressing the flowers of darkness
awakening soft whispers
and releasing a heavy fragrance that permeates everywhere
even the seemingly hollow spaces
where unseen waves of dripping desire
are undiminished by the absence of fire
© Ann Bagnall