The world surrounding was concealed in a lonely blackness.
The moon, saddened by its silencing.
Not the type of dark that comes
When the moon rises
And the sun elegantly creeps away.
The type of dark that intertwines with the grass,
the shivering branches,
And the very air intoxicating a perky lung.
This heavy mass, inky black,
The deep corner of a gloomy junkyard
And I was the rusting locket
Long lost and buried in the chaos of fading memories.
Once mocking, the stars lingering in the heavens
Like a wild candle light
Smothered and suffocated under a bushel.
Their unwavering bliss and streak of danger
As if the lungs of the glowing balls of fire
Violently gasping for breath,
Were my own.
I was the army of angered luminosity,
illuminating the limitation of Earth
And I was the darkness smoldering over their being
I was the light fighting to be seen
And I was the thick mustering cloud
I was the moon
And I was the sun.
I was the stars
And I was the clouds.
I was my own darkness
And I was my own light.
-Haylee R. Curry
There is always hope, and we’re here for you. Reach out, get help.
Our 24-hour crisis line is available 7 days/week at 970.252.6220 or 844.493.8255
Colorado Crisis Services
Center for Mental Health Crisis Services