Night, that old sinkhole of the soul, climbs the dark stairs of despair who knows what the moon is thinking behind that one-eyed stare clawing his way through the pines outside my window carrying bootblack in a blanket when it's colder for shining shoes that go with my black suit and the red rose on the pillow I burn before the morning.
Young enough to know that what they’ll have me believe of this world is a shadowy truth at best. The lesson in each dancing darkness on my wall is love, & we’re nothing but silhouettes until the lights come on.
The coldness of morning penetrates in proportion to the lonely nights before and the winds that blow in from the north like sadness wrapped all around me a coat without pockets no warmth for my hands that once held yours like ashes without fire and there is ice on my lashes that burns like the last words I heard you say to my back as I walked away out the door.