Silhouettes Aside.

This room would lie imperfectly
still. in this bed, there
was no life, but the living

foliage used as fabric
to thread quilts of
spider webs to trap
these undiscovered
emotions inside the retired
dust I knew as my skin;

I'd lie in this empty
space giving my room
no where to move,
and my bed no airs

to breathe.

silhouettes aside,
the earth itself blocked
my view of the sun,
inhibited my side of this
globe access to the warmth
it brings ―creating nighttime,
revealing distant stars,
yet furthering cold.

The few specks of
heat that once trickled
warm grey airs
slowly dissipated,
undifferentiating the
feelings to feel and fall
completely.

I lived as the arctic
temperatures inside the
tropic circles of latitudes

for too long.
refusing to kiss and tell
myself the secret of
what your touch would mean,

by not letting those
who fell into my love,
at least think I was
thinking of doing the
same. So my last ten years
were all the same;

laying still, as my bed
rotated counterclockwise
toward the morning;
While my side of this globe
turned to the sun, and left
me to wrestle in the darkness

Mark Anthony Thomas
Copyright © 2011

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