Wrapped embers, red flickers, like cinder in the wool,

     unbright but burning through

I wonder what it is that makes each day anew

Peace as I may crave?

Fear as I may grave?

Which one leads to love, and gifts a greater life?

Which one brings a chill, and casts a colder fight?

I'm trapped inside this room, this dark womb of my concerns

Such solitude of night invents these fevered turns

Such thoughts, such threads, like toxins in my head

Or are they poisons bled?

Spun blessings here instead?



Plucked plums, pen-named, as dread?

These fears, these quandaries, these fortunes freely fed

So roughly understood, so ghostly imprecise

Like curtains, red burdens massed of might

Restless little verdins that stitch a nightly sight?

The quandaries, the quandaries

Are they men or mice?

I don't know, I don't know

The thing is

I don't know

Through the ceiling, to the light



Will I grow old, regress - see less and turn to stone?

To the light


Will I go blind without my night?

Or will I thrive inside that light?