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Poem

The day is dull, almost 
shadowless. I am alone; shadow
would have given me comfort.

Pages of ancient tomes, 
full of must, call me;
there is always comfort here.

I light lamps
damning the florescent pall.
When bathed in the flicker 
florescent lit walls become
blue-tinged harbingers of death.

I worship beneath the 
shadow-casting gold of incandescence.
The 300-watt glow of my love-gifted 
torchiere soothes me.

I place thin-skinned cheek on 
chill of plaster wall, wishing to submerge
myself in shadow, but I do not succumb.

Ah, the page that calls, the keys which click
when pen has gone unfound, are all I have.

Why leave, my heart cries out, 
there is only the cold of the grave,
none to mourn your passing. 
Only the sterile page,
the plaster walls, the shadowed-stage?

No, I argue with my weary self, 
put aside this Keats-like gloom 
poverty and tombs, and rise!

The sun will shine at winter's end
to daffodils.


First Published Inwood Indiana February 2014

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