First Darkness
In the eastern sky,
the first star is out.
A single bone, white
and sharp, socketed.
At dusk, everything looks blue.
The world bleeds warmth,
the cool colour of a vein
beneath skin.
Blue,
a bruise that remembers pain.
The horizon swallows its fire,
draws itself inside out,
like a map of your skin,
the only territory that matters.
Call west,
where copper ember drowns.
Call south,
where roots grow dense in soil.
North,
where tightening cold locks earth in silence.
East.
Call light back into your eyes
before this star is joined by its legion,
an ossuary of ancient fire,
a cold promise
marker of what is gone.
Do it now.
Gather the last light like a thief.
Strike a match in the cave of your chest.
Let it catch.
For this is first darkness.
It waits, patient as stone,
to see if you will be its pupil,
or its kindling.
