Dead Metaphors

This is why poetry will forever evade me:
because I am afraid of the dark
spaces left by the cracks of every door, spaces
leading to the absence of light, of everything
luminous. I am afraid
of every shadow, lurking, hiding beneath
the real, the tangible, the certain
colors the eye could see. For there is only
a wall, warped with age, blocking
the view, filled with cracks
waiting to be filled. If ever I trespass

through those dark spaces, through that emptiness
bearing something out of nothing, my eyes cannot see
that concealed something, and no hands
with which to grasp it, to harness it
‘til it becomes my own. Then there are
these truths, always coming back, begging
to be revealed one more time, for me
to refuse, but I still yield in fear
of what lurks beneath
their luminous glow, in fear of being
murdered for being absurd. So what happens

is an echo; a shout that comes back
with lesser force, something you’ve heard before
but fainter. For making fire is something
to learn when in the dark,
lest you grope blindly, only testing for echo,
letting the same voice find you
again and again, never seeing past
the wall of nothingness you’ve run into.