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DAYS OF NO SUN
By Quentin Smith
I would rather sleep than wake again
To another dead morning.
The sky is shiningless, dull and dead
As unvarnished silver. Its hangman
tightens his noose, waiting for any colors.
Without any warning,
The day drags its broken wing
Softly through my eyes. I start to suffocate
Inside its gentle, dying feathers, but cannot move
In the paralysis of this hour.
An exhausted wind now diffuses,
Like the aroma of Zyclon,
Through the open windows,
Like the fog of death it leaves me lifeless,
Plastered with apathy on the chair.
Besides me a cheap, hardware store lamp
Flops out its murky light.
Its sickly yellow is helpless
Against the day’s phantom sheets.
The sky’s ghost-gray sheen drifts
With an ordure of hospital rooms of the newly dead.
And I too am part of this world,
That is a forever dying dawn,
Always twilight, without
Any exploding intensity of light;
There is only a whisper of a long absent sun,
A sun that would come like a knight to rescue me
And destroy the dragons of striated clouds
With thrashing whips of gold.
It would gild the usual dawn with the new Infinite.
And in the expansion of this crimson space
I would write on the perfect pages of the sun,
And be saved from this torpid, useless life.
Written 2002 |