As the Dark

“They call them ghost lights,” I was told, “to honor the space’s history.”

No matter that their purpose now stands to warn of an approaching edge,

A ledge of space no more deadly in the dark than the light, but warned nonetheless.

A barrier between what is told and not, what is part of a world.

In the darkness, it is all the same, I know it is.

The light shines brighter even so.

To be afraid of the dark is to fear nature, 

That ever-present, ever-aching absence of that which is understood.

Alas, it is not relevant to the basker that the natural state of shelter is shadow.

It is no matter that the light scorches and burns and singes.

To be hesitant to take a step beyond the ghost light

Is to fear that which cradles the world.

“Turn it on when you leave,” they had said. “Make sure you are the last.”

I’ve no doubt the tradition is kept in a city much older than mine,

A chain link between temporary goalposts,

A feigned blink sought to ward off the dusk.

To pretend to walk honestly along a meaningless tightrope

Is to use an imaginary ocean to float. 

Slipping down into too-plush seats I slide,

Turn my eyes to the ornamental trim traced by thousands come before.

Is this night my own? For the same sight will play

So long as the light remains on.

I am not a disruption in the flow of this stream,

I remain in accordance with those before me.

Even in the echoes of it now, I feel it in my chest. 

The incessant tapping and pulling of those aches of which I did not expect entry. 

Their company is welcome, I know, as no story is complete without. 

My forebearers have thought the same, I rest where they did,

Turning my eyes to an arched proscenium. 

I wait. I come again.