The darkness is ending

at the moment when darkness flows over me
like an ocean
and is going to drown me at all,
I am just an abandoned kitten,
paddling, and squeaking,
and ingesting this freezing darkness.
this is totally, awfully scary, and
at the moment when dark is ingested so much
that it comes out from me
in unspoken poems,
somewhere far, in a distance, a spark lights up
and I’m swimming over.

listen, I could’ve never swum, wept, or begged,
but what should the abandoned kitten do then?
and I’m swimming over,
and the ocean is coming apart.

at the moment, when darkness is coming apart,
the sparkle is distinct and lighter.
and I see, this isn’t a lighthouse,
this is a trembling taper.
and the hands preserve it,
warm mother’s hands,
which is better than any lighthouse.

and I’m swimming over.

I’m swimming over, ‘cause my house is only there,
‘cause if I fall to the shoulder
of the one who is feeding the flame
all my nineteen unthinking years,
the ocean will let me go,
I will declaim my poems.
the darkness is ending.

now it isn’t so awfully scary
to dive into this ocean,
to paddle and squeak
‘cause, listen, I will definitely come back,
nevertheless come back,
and will fall to the shoulder.
the darkness is ending,
but just for a while.

‘cause I will long to swim somewhere else,
(and one will be certainly waiting for me)
‘cause I need to find the unspoken poems.

and I’m swimming over
the darkness deepens.