This text is black.
“Like my soul,” says my generation,
stringing up skeletons and spiderwebs
and painting their walls and wardrobes
to match. I watch
the murky words fade into dull ears,
and the reality of evil creates
a cloudy ache in my chest.
Colors are not tools
to poke fun at its existence.
It is black,
like the grimy asphalt roads
that pull my muddy, worn tires and thoughts
further down an eternal string of broken yellow lines.
The sky is a gray that my eyes rival.
In days past, I would have trembled at the dark,
clinging to pictures of sunlit pastures
when the world had painted the windows black.
Darkness was a foreign word.
It was black,
like the color of broken bonds and tainted trust,
smudging my fingers and my heart.
Darkness equals evil,
or so my childhood calculations had resolved.
The closet held no room for dark sweaters or sadness.
black sleeves creep about my wrists,
along with the deeper colors
I find myself unearthing safety in.
They are black,
like the inky ripples of a quiet lake
as I watch from the rough, wooden porch above.
The air is stagnant against my beating chest.
Reflections of a dark-caped sky
seep into the watery depths,
perhaps striking the sea life with clouded uncertainty.
The night is still,
but midnight is still a mystery.
It is black,
like the night that carried my wordless prayers
when all else had turned a heedless ear.
had blinked out of focus,
but the haze they left was oddly secure—
as safe as the arms of the shadows I slept in.
And a heart that was tied to the stars
to the darkness between them.
This text is black,
but the darkness need not be evil.
The gray, faded clothes I wear
do not mean that I am one with a dim depression,
or that I do not appreciate creation’s colors.
I have embraced what I once found fearful;
I now understand that the dark understands me.
Because even if stars or strings of lights
flicker out of view,
the darkness they leave is not evil.
It is simply unknown.
Cindy Green is a forest-wandering, poetry-scribbling stargazer with messy notebooks and messy thoughts. Despite her love for all of God’s creation, sunflowers and stars in particular have a way of sneaking into both her writing and her heart (but you won’t hear her complaining about it). She is an amateur sword-wielder with a Highland-dancing warrior spirit who also writes letters to the moon and considers the sky her best friend. A focused daydreamer, organized pack rat, and oblivious observer, she is a self-professing ambivert (or a living contradiction) who deeply feels both the beauty and fallen state of the world. Through her words, she hopes to describe the indescribable and form personal connections with people while reflecting a love for her Savior and a passion for everything she touches.