The play, like a baby, comes from the dark
Like all the crackling things that are not real
In a tossed night of sleep. The light will mark
Itself in each crevasse for its reveal.
It finds itself in absence, as you cure
Yourself in catharsis, the terrifying
Deception where even the deceiver
Believes the alchemy. It's clarifying
To chase the shadows dancing in the lamp,
And know that that's your vehicle to stamp
As well these subtle contours of your soul;
Darkness, the only canvas you will know,
The only pen, the only stroke of note:
Such fire in that irascible lump of coal.
