Nights of television static
Flickering cobalt blue
Floorboards creak
With the slightest movement
Be still,
Silent in sequestered rooms,
Close the door
Like a box of summer clothes
Stored in the attic
Under the door frame,
A yellow light seeps
Into the light or
Into the dark
Cold ceramic,
Surrounded by old photographs,
In black and white,
With edges bent,
Pale skin, red lipstick,
Drinking bitter, iced coffee
Mourning
The loneliness of a motherless child
Yearning
For touch
From long, lissome, lovely hands
Embraced, wide-opened arms,
Swallowed up in perfumed dresses
Into the light, or
Into the dark
You study the shadows:
Fine, French provincial furniture
Cuts into the white walls
With sharp, serrated edges
You are the only one still awake
Finding sanctuary in the darkest hours
Relentless impulses
Of meandering ideation
Quell the urges
With pretty thoughts
Flights of fancy
Imaginary places
So full of words
Too far gone
In a world of striving for
Something More
The Uselessness of Regret
There is nothing left to do
Surrender to the feathered pillow
The keeper of heavy heads
Solace sought
In dreams
Into the light, or
Into the dark