Sometimes I write Poetry, depending on my mood.

Touching Light.

The dark canopy hung heavy and old,

A forest of shadows, of silence and cold.

No stars pierced the ceiling, no moon drifted through,

The world was a canvas of deep, sterile blue.

Deep in the thicket, a little bug stayed,

Muted by dampness, of dark paths afraid.

The moss was a labyrinth, the branches a wall,

She felt herself fading, unnoticed and small.

The woods whispered secrets: "To fit in, stay dim.

Merge with the shadows, conform to the grim."

But the weight of the quiet was heavy to bear,

A longing for texture, for warmth in the air.

Then came a night when the blackness grew deep,

A midnight so heavy the woods seemed to weep.

The barriers closed, and her pathways were gone,

No sign of a clearing, no hint of a dawn.

Trapped in the density, cornered by night,

She stopped looking outward to search for the light.

She sat in the stillness, she closed her small eyes,

And listened to where her own boundaries rise.

She felt the sharp sting of the cold on her shell,

The space in her chest where the quiet notes dwell.

And there in the pressure, the dark, and the squeeze,

A friction awoke like a spark in the breeze.

A tremor of amber, a heartbeat of gold,

A warmth that the forest could no longer hold.

It pulsed through her body, a vibrant, soft glow,

A tactile response to the darkness below.

She looked at her wings, now a brilliant design,

Where shadows and gold in a symmetry twine.

The blackness around her no longer brought fear—

It was only the canvas that made her look clear.

For the light wasn't found in a sky far above,

Nor chased in a clearing, nor begged from a dove.

The darkness itself was the key to the spark:

She learned how to glow because of the dark.

Disclaimer: I do not identify as a firefly—but if I had been born an insect, that is likely what I would have been. Seek inside you, the light is always there.