In the dark
A poem
Tiger, tiger, soul’s dark blight,
Pouncing, cutting in the night.
What dreadful deed has summoned thee,
Slaying, slowly with unfeeling teeth?
Wet black eyes: mechanical, cold,
Inky indifference, crypts of old,
Reveal no wondrous design or thought;
Only malice, sorrow, and loss.
Pounding on the door of Light,
“Help! I cannot win this fight!”
Its thumping, thudding paws draw near.
I croak and cry—“Please, Someone, hear!”
Bloodless murder, heart’s demise;
“Save me, oh my God on high!”
Blinding, binding—this monster’s sin;
“Break his teeth! Please, let me in!”
“Patience, child,” I hear Him say,
"I will not let that Tiger win the day.”
But I turn to stare at Despair’s mouth
And tremble as I wait for help.
This is a hauntingly beautiful piece, Mark. The Blakean echo draws the reader in, but what lingers is the inward struggle—the tiger as despair, pouncing not from the jungle but from within the soul. The movement from terror to supplication to trembling faith feels true to experience: God promises deliverance, yet the heart still quakes in the waiting. That last line captures it perfectly—the tension of faith between promise and fulfillment.