Sometimes

Sometimes, darkness can be too dark—
not having a single spark.
Dingy, long unending days
with no light at the end.
All things look empty and vain.
Things fall apart.
There, I wish for hope.



Sometimes, silence can be too silent—
without any rustle or any breath.
In a lonely place, alone,
feeling and sensing so down,
feeling so diffident and so forlorn.
There, I wish for love and joy.



Sometimes, stresses can be too stressful—
without any prospect of solution.
When troubles are troubling
and things are all in a hotchpotch,
there, I wish for peace and homely beauty.



Sometimes, love can be so hurtful—
when a wounded heart breaks into pieces
spread all around me, everywhere—
on the carpet, on the sofa,
on the pillows, the beds,
everywhere.
There, I wish for a true love.



I wonder why I am the only one at fault.
Alone, bearing all these pains,
my mind goes over the brink.
Where will I set my foot?
Where will I rest?
Why do I get sucked into this tunnel
so often?

So dark. So indistinguishable.
I try to hide—
but especially from myself.

Darkness.