The Poet In the Darkness

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
The dark is something I knew about
A mind attuned to sense and thought
A rationale of is and ought
Of such I had no doubt.

It is that hidden, secret place
There be dragons, as long ago
Of this, the terra incognito
Where no road does trace.

It is true that at lack of light
Twisted things may find conceal
Dark predators may yet steal
As they roam the endless night.

And even more, the deeds can hide
Or so they think, skulking there
With gilded eye they smell the air
Conspiracy does in shade abide.

But dark cannot conceal the heart
For it is subtle sort of flame
Pretense about it is a game
Ignoring it a great worldly art.

What is deeper then, and still
Than those horrors of dark outside
Beyond their absurdities confide
And beyond their feeble will?

The nadir of all things! -- in shade
A sheltered mountain, perhaps a cave
Mere halflight is its winsome nave
A never-seen sacred glade.

Sitting here in the darkened room
With but breath and heft confide
Sight avails not, and must subside
A sensation which I cannot describe
An intimacy, I then did decide
Intimacy such as a mother's womb
Earth sighing in an empty tomb.

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