Earlier, for the longest time,

I used to accept darkness

as a fact of life.

What can one do,

in the absence of light?

At that time, candles

told only stories of windowless churches,

of prayers

for the dead and then for the living.

Only a handful of them--

in the kitchen drawer--

screamed of midweek blackouts.

I had never known before,

that a candle could open doors that didn’t exist,

that it could light impenetrable darkness

like that of the soul.

I have never known that it could pierce through the hypnotic surface

to the amaranthine core

of nights and of rain,

of things and beings,

of it all,

whatever it all may be.