Steeled for battle, darkness spills from her secret place.
As if poured from above she rushes towards the horizon, her torrent muting all that is bright.
Liquid blackness seeps forward and soon a container in the shape of me fills with a mighty darkness.
Resigned to her task she watches as fingernails claw the container’s inner surface.
“Almost full,” she sighs.
From beyond the horizon a spear of light strikes a mighty blow, piercing that container in the shape of me.
Blackness, thick like ink, leaks from the breach.
Her daily assault blunted, darkness slams her fist upon the earth.
And, as a crack of thunder rolls past, I am free.
Free from darkness.
Alone, I look at my hands and wonder. Today the lunging spear of light is forged from nothing more than a call from an old friend.
And on days when there is no such call?
On those days the lancing light must be crafted from what’s available; a text exchange with my son or daughter, a shared smile, a book lent or perhaps nothing more than a door held open. Forged from the simplest of acts, these slivers of light slice into darkness and rend a container in the shape of me.
And now defeated, darkness retreats to her secret place.
Not for long I fear, for she seethes.
Licking wounds of red, she’ll return tomorrow.