Here, I sit dreaming
by the quiet glass
through which everything has shined
dark and light
gilded sun and hungry shadow
all of them, gifts
strumming the webs of thought
in my tired mind.
*
At dawn, I search the panes
for signs of yestereve
for changes in the night
for perhaps the world had broken
as I slept.
But none, are there,
none in the glass
though many in me.
*
At dusk, I press my nose
against the highest window
hunting the gloam
for haunts yet to wake
for all things nocturnal
who must surely do the same
and search for me
even as I lie dreaming.
*
And at night, ere the witching
I am most alone
scrawling by candle
inking the world’s walls
with things that never were.
It’s then, just then
I wake from long, black halls,
and see my face, the lights in my eyes
the shadow of my cheek
staring back at me from the place beyond my door.
*
*
*