Silverfish

White Rabbit

The falling rocks along the mountainside
tumbling into the crashing waves below us
reminds me of the other night I tried to tell you
what you needed to hear.

Or perhaps it was what I needed to hear–
an awful number of precarious honesty and
feeling.
But the mountainside does not regret the falling rocks,
and the crashing waves below do not cry themselves to sleep.

The further I travel along the mountainside the
worse it gets.
Everything falls into itself, the rocks piling higher and higher atop of the shoreline.
I can see a small sliver of light pressing through the rocks–
but then it is gone.

Though I hold onto the light like the sun's permanent culmination,
the beginning of an end.
It draws me in with its warm and exhilarating light,
but I know better this time.

For with light there is blindness,
and fire
and pain.
The dark is empty and cold,
safe and unwilling.

So I stay beneath the falling rocks and crashing waves–
satisfied with the illusion of clarity.