last night (when the wind rustled against my old-tyme window,
making it pound in its loose socket) i saw the incandescent glow
of the silence in your sleep; your mind unfurling with dreams in tow
to the degradation of a well-renowned groundling (now despised)
who left his heart in the waters of a hotel swimming pool. his eyes
(so deadly tired) had finally rested after reading for hours and he tried
to simply shake off distress with a single breath—though it cannot be
undone. the plucking of the leaves by the autumn wind exceed
any sickly breath that the once-alive boy could ever breathe.
the shingles on his roof remind him of that blanket they shared
when the winter snow made misty moors in the December air
—the declaration of such memories are too much for him to bare.
o how he knows, how he leaps upon this night as if he died
or set her free—like the light he and i now judge so unfair.