Down in A Hole

“Down in A Hole”:

The birds sing when the sky turns purple;

they sing songs of suffering and grief.

They make the most wondrous harmony—it blacks out the sun;

we rejoice over the absence of that once brilliant light;

light in shades of our purples and blues sprout from the darkness.

As we sing:

“Down in the hole

feeling so small

down in the hole

losing my soul.”

I’d love to float but they’ve taken away my magic;

I’d love to cry but my tears run like dust down my cheeks—

grey, the sky is grey as the purple sun sets.

The grey kisses the sky like ash or cigarettes;

it omits a smog through the air, a poisonous toxin.

The grey’s time is the shortest yet most captivating.

As we dance to the setting of my sun;

the crickets sing; butterflies fly away into the darkness.

She is yet to arrive; but they still flee

as grey fades to black

and wolves sing a painful dirge.

As they sing, and we cry and they sing, and sing and sing and we cry—

what sad music they sing?

I ask myself as I realize I’ve been here far too long

how did I get here?

Where I’ve created my own world in this hole,

where there are seasons and a spectrum of time,

where I have friends and we wake and sleep to metal sounds.

Just when did I arrive?

And how did I conjure up the courage to drift this far?

This is the art of sinking;

this is my hole I’ve sunk in;

this is the art of wallowing;

this is the hole that’s kept me.

The darkness swallows my every day;

as the black fades to purple and

I hear the birds singing and

the cycle starts again.