It may not be good, but it IS OC

Even on the stoop, the teeth.
That arch parked outside your door -
Black, and moans, and flecks of red
in demure filigree at the portal's edge

Is this what I've been chasing?
What I'm always running from, and to, turning
Somersets down time's shrinking alley
Hoping for a light, instead

The teeth.

Is there ever light? Possibly -
a faint, flickering thing before it, kept aloft on the steady march,
warmth and comfort for fools,
maybe, or sages. Are the shades they cast so different?
Is life better with the naked truth -
that we all careen in darkness, ending at

the maw.

The extinguished?

Perhaps we should carry candles, still,
to comfort our fellow travellers
That they not feel so lost
Along this only path