The dark gets a bad rap.
Everyone fawns for the light.
Poets & the Pious are the worst—
rejoice when night is over.
Angels fall to its abyss.
Demons crawl from out.
We’ve been schooled to flinch
from its embrace.
We forgot its tender
comfort in the womb.
We pity the blind, assume
they’re unable to see.
They are the first to tell you
there’s nothing to fear.
Horror has usurped them
with its guile. Black is cast
as villain. Glory’s always white.
Darkness tells it different.
It begets our silhouettes.
Plunges us to passion.
Note your widened
pupils, like a mouth
that’s primed to kiss.
Nighttime is our Cupid
not our keeper.
It is mystery and it is knowledge.
It reveals our cosmic birth.
It sings us clemently to sleep,
shrouds us while we slumber
in the fields.
I’m unable to guess
how it got this way.
Our forebears
had looked up to midnight’s
grandeur—never down.
It’s how we behold the heavens.
Learn we’re not alone.
The truth of a trillion stars.
Now our eyes are ever-
lowered to our screens.
What is it we’re hoping to
find? When wonder’s been
eternally aloft, stood up like
a bride amid a breeze,
longing for her belovѐd
to at last unearth her grace,
there within the shadows in
the moment a candle’s snuffed.
Andreas Gripp
July 26, 2026
photo: FamVeld / Getty Images
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