A colour, a memory, assigned

to the darkness. Eerie emptiness

of the soul. The thick smog of a factory,

the heaviness of a storm. It is in which

demons dress and scare young children.

Black, the cry of a wolf in the dead of the night.

It is perhaps a blood-curdling scream

stifled by utter silence.

Black is groping in the dark

reaching for

what is not there.

It is a nightmare screaming

at you to wake up.

Black is, perhaps, your lover’s hair.

The colour the sky bleeds

after the sun leaves,

full of stars. It is exploration.

Black is the entire universe for those who can’t see, it is

their sunlight, their rose petals, their favourite scenery.

Black is the colour of their mother’s face, their father’s

smile, their favourite record.

Or perhaps, it is the shade

of an old bruise

that started to mark.

It is the shade of the person that

beauty commercials deny. It is death

on a rainy day, shadows moving in

every way. Evil whispers through the night,

smells of rotting corpses in the hot sun,

loneliness surrounding someone.

They tell you to stay away from it, the black in the world.

They tell you stories: a dark soul alone in the world,

a scared little helpless girl.

Black roses surround your grave. Black is every feeling piled on

cancelling each other out

until nothing.

But when the light of the day is too much to bear,

Black is the cold hands welcoming you

Home.