In the land without sun, time ceases;
no new mornings, days, weeks, or years.
An endless continuum of darkness.
Yet you say, ‘Snap out of it.’
In sunlight's absence, the plant withers;
leaves curl inward, brown, and brittle.
The sun is life's source; the earth vibrant
and alive from its warmth and light.
Give the plant water and nutrients,
take away the sun, and death
is all that remains.
Yet you admonish, ‘You should be more
grateful.’
I am looking for the sun—gasping, dying.
The darkness is a heavy cloak and its emptiness
suffocating. Give me the sun!
There are many ways to write about death—
a vacuum devoid of color and sensations,
the sharp smell of decay, the weight of sorrows
pressing against my chest.
Store my dying screams in bound pages
and give them wings to fly.
Words, on the wings of ravens,
bring the sunlight. Words sprouting,
blossoming into hope and healing.
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