the webs between before and after

Before,
all I could see was dark-side

it was a comet
that wiped my gaze
cleaning the muck
from my eyes

this was no Kleenex moment
this was an Epiphany
(of sorts)

It doesn't matter
what I do now,
for my pages have been
all, but written
it doesn't change a world
if my words turn into arrows,
and my stanzas
into grenades anymore,
my words are mere
microscopic scratches,
in the clockwork of time
covering my hands

(ink)

it will never be the same again
that moment that turned on itself,
consuming all the darkness
in one foul breath

with the release of hounds
and a head running free
to not mattering

well it just doesn't
does it?

After,

all I can see is sparkling
in the radiance of webbed
worries,
as it washed away with pain