Every rustle from the other room is mistaken for someone coming through the door 
Sharp quick waves of hope at the click and slow turn of a door jamb startle; an electric start and stop like the futile flicking of a lighter in the sweaty maw of a pale hand 
And Oh the heart-sink realisation that the rustle from the other room is not someone through the door; it is not someone through the door, it is the cat 
And with that, the door closes on light that once shone into a child’s room 
And the child now entombed 
closed away with dread of the dead 
now separated from sentinal light that ran up and down a steadfast hall lies still; Lying still in the meter of the dark’s heart beat 
Comfort layers of life sucked through a vaccuum 
Tearing away the pale from the pink 
Peeling away the thing of living from a death that lays staring long ahead 
I lay down now in the hours 
Into the space filled with the hours between then and now 
and long to sink into some green river with my pockets full of stones 
I test and wade now into the rippled waters of a flooded church and sense with newborn capability that the sky’s infinite expanse was never meant for me 
But only those dark meters of death’s beat to beat
 
 
(February, 2014)
 
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