Tweedledee and Tweedledum thrum and hum together. Sam I am convinces them to eat the Hearts of Queens instead of the sweet, sticky tarts. Jabberwockians play ice hockey in spring, and Alice slips down the rabbit hole in search of meaning and understanding how the universe came about. The white rabbit wears a hat. Why he chose to buy it from the Cat in the Hat instead of the mad Hatter, I’ll never know. The pocket fob slowly melts in a Daliesque manner, and everyone’s early for breakfast though late for the six-o-clock tea.

Sky’s canopy of heaven’s shade,

Its canvas stretched, sun’s daggers lance;

Fire’s flame lights azure’s page

Consuming lapis-laid expanse

Cobalt pours; carafes of hues

Tastebuds tantalizing sight

Sunset’s wine, blush, shades of rouge

Glint garnish sating appetites

Purple dust, laced lavender

Confetti clouds swirl dusky dreams

Whips of cotton candy sugar

Prussian, gold thread evening’s seam

Stars as sand on shores of sky;

Horizon’s galaxies

Raindrops misting wonder wh-eyes

Drenched in humility

it is not the dark

that instills that

crippling fear

within my mind

but the fear of

what is in the dark

that keeps me from

taking that first step

All is fine, but not is mine,

as dreams still haunt me daring.

As time goes, through highs and lows,

they come quick to mind, not caring.

Not blood, nor moan, would hurt alone,

as demons stand all glaring.

No thought will wane, while I'm insane.

My armaments I'm wearing.

They taunt me so, and will not go!

Their shrieks and cries keep blaring!

Now I'm awake, I scarce can take,

the thought of their declaring.

We'll meet again. I don't know when.

And so your teeth, you will be baring.

This poem is about my actual dreams. Most, if not all, consist of monstrous nightmares with demons and creatures. I started having these dreams when I accidentally viewed a horror movie at the age of five. Since then, I have used my dreams to an advantage by turning them into deep and meaningful poems.

Look, I do great in the dark.

Growing up a tomboy, I had broken so many pairs of glasses. This forced me, on different occasions, to develop a broad sense of muscle memory. I can be nice and quiet in darkness.

It’s what the night does to some people.

It’s almost as if an internal switch is flipped, programming a darker side of the soul.

It’s as though their moral compass has shattered, and they have lost self control.

I’m talking about serial killers, murderers, rapists. Average humans harnessing a collection of demons.

But, consider this:

Perhaps they prey during the night in an attempt to lure or attack someone who is already afraid simply due to lack of light.

Maybe they bask in watching you walk fast to your car after being the last to leave from the office. Maybe they are being given a sample of what fear looks like on you.

The dark provides a sense of safety to them.

They can hide but still be watching.

Planning.

And, you?

You would never even know it.

Coming from the black.

Screeching.

Clawing.

Ripping my flesh,

My shame spilling out.

My soul,

Theirs for the taking.

I’m watching in disgust.

They are devouring me.

Whimpering.

Looking for someone to help,

I hear more noises coming from the black.

More beasts coming to enjoy the feast,

Stepping out of the dark I see myself.

Standing.

Watching.

An evil grin spreading across my face.

What a sickening realization.

What a menacing truth.

I will always be the monster,

Devouring the good in myself.

It’s foolish to be afraid of the dark.

People quiver in fear because their eyesight isn’t suited for blackness, for nighttime. Foolish, the lot of them. Do they even bother to think about what “dangers” the darkness holds?

Those large, shiny eyes from the bushes are raccoons and cats, watching for food or attention. The scratching on the bedroom window is the branches of the tree; the groaning of the house is the heavy wood settling in the cold or swaying in the wind. Someone leaving a window cracked is not the fault of the darkness, and neither is the scurrying of the rats in the dirty basement her fault.

The darkness tries to help the ungrateful fools anyway. She cloaks the sun so that they can sleep; she cools the raging heat of the earth so that the very ground they walk upon doesn’t burn them. Nighttime provides them with rest and respite, and the dark extends in the winter, when the sun reflects blindingly off the snow.

The dark is elegant and quiet, the calm of the inside of the eyelids and the void of space itself. She enhances tenfold the grace and beauty of the stars; without her, their light is meaningless. She makes way for the spotlight in the concert hall and the theatre, spurring on the performance with her supportive arms. She allows for sneaking fun, for hide-and-seek, for bonfires that glow and fireworks that dazzle.

Sure, some of those childlike figures laughing outside the window at night are real, but people fear them without giving them a chance. Their laughter brings love, humor, good fortune; the spectre that leaves footprints in the flour protects and the wraith that rattles pots and pans is cleaning and purifying and blessing.

People fear what they don’t know. They set up night lights in every room and make flashlights and headlamps to drive away the darkness, to cast her out. She tries to help anyway, because she loves them, those foolish, puny people that reject her so strongly.

It’s not the fault of the darkness that the eyesight of humans is so pathetic. It’s not her fault that they are easily deceived by magic tricks and dancing lights, and it’s not her fault that people are irrationally terrified of anything and everything that they don’t immediately, innately know.

She can only help them, save them, for so long. They flee from their guardian angel and into something far more dangerous. They’re going to regret it, the utter fools, running from her and straight into the true demons. Those bright rays do nothing but blind them to what lurks within, give a false sense of security, dim and cloud their eyes so that one day, with a morbid irony, darkness will be all they know. The dark can only protect so much if she’s turned away, and without her, people are helpless and vulnerable to what lies eagerly in wait.

It’s foolish to be afraid of the dark.

You should be afraid of the light.

Forced to walk blindly forwards, the unknown strangling me. Walk too slow, they push, not nudge, me harder forwards. Walk too fast, I risk tripping over my own feet and

falling into p i e c e s.

There are a lot of things I don't know:

Where: I'm going, am I, is everyone I know

Why: I'm here, is it so dark, is there no light

What: is that noise, is surrounding me, am I doing (here)

Who: am I, is pushing me, will save me

But I forgot to ask one important question: when will I reach the end? when will I fall?When will someone save me? When will it be too late?

*Note: This is my half of a collaboration I worked on with another fellow author. I did not include hers here, being that the first half is her work and it is not mine to share. This is my own half about fear in the dark.

The static seeps into my brain.

And it drains itself into my eardrums unwarranted as my throat

fills with choke.

And these demons become the birth of white noise settling themselves into

ribcages and opened veins,

a silence so deafening it devours all my nerve endings

in traumatic renditions of airplane crashes

and flesh burning at the stake.

And I am damned. I am damned.

And I can hear the static singeing

and engulfing and consuming

in muffled hums so paralyzing,

maggots bury themselves into my skin.

And I am laughing.

And I am laughing,

until I am crying

and my body is an avalanche of earthquakes —

tremors of terror —

and there is nothing in the darkness except:

fizzzzzz tschhhhhhh....

fizzzzzz tschhhhhh...

fizzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzztschhhhhhhhhhh...

And I am crumbling. I am crumbling and

my eyes are fixated on an endless abyss

as my eyelids lock in place, stiff

and solid in their fixating

on the projector playing in my mind —

a waltz of haunts and grotesque ghosts

mocking,

as my fingernails are scraping blood tracks into my thighs.

But I cannot wake up, I cannot wake up,

I cannot wake because this shell is alive.

This body is a night terror of silenced screams,

a twilight zone of tumult as my tongue remains glued

to the roof of a mouth unable to move,

and of cries unable to be heard because they are drowned to their death

in the never ending, inescapable nightmare sounds of:

fizzzzzz tschhhhhhh....

fizzzzzz tschhhhhh...

fizzzzzzzzzzzzzzzztschhhhhhhhhhh...

The static seeps into my brain.

And I am paralyzed within my own coffin

of a frozen body.

And my screams are dissipated into an I fathomable darkness.

Light on.

Light off.

Light on.

Light off.

Light on.

Light off.

Off.