PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Windows tend to speak to me after certain hours.
What they say is troubling, if only just for now;
because it's all about the dark that's left when suns forget
and lull into a hapless sleep on the other side of spheres.
They speak in volumes, tomes and missives,
blaring like an idled train,
and say to me, "you'll stay alone
because you're somehow worse than yesterday."
Their voice, like glass, is very thin
and barely reaches toward the bed.
Cadence crackled, hoarse and whispered,
yet still it finds the nape of neck,
the ear of the loneliest man in the room,
and the strings which pull at his heart.
"Alone is what you are and were --
alone is what you'll be forever."
I reach for something heavy, solid,
stone-like with a fit to hand,
to lob at blackness closing in
through where I let the breeze intrude.
Yet as there is nothing near,
besides the cat,
and because I am so tired, and so tired of fighting,
I'll roll on one side and bundle close,
enjoying the company of all these pillows I've collected.