It is not the darkness that is to be feared. It is the sound of darkness. Each of us lie seperately in our own darkness, listening to its low rumble fill our ears. Here in my own darkness I listen to the voice filling empty space and think to run, but know the voice is constant, ever present, that there is no escaping it, just as there is no escaping the face in the mirror. The bones inside this body hold the knowledge of all that has been or ever will. This, the darkness knows. This the darkness must speak, the words spiraling into the soft coil of our ears, spinning, insisting, until they are heard.
prompt:
Mary Olver poems -
Wild Geese
White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field
The Kookaburras
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