The Comfort of Sense
Of course, it makes sense.
But sense was never comforting.
It does not chase away
The lonely chill.
You shiver, and logic has lost is tongue.
The beast is on the hunt
But even the scent of shame
Must be earned,
And that is not an award I can claim
So I linger on the empty Plain.
The piano keys answer with a thud
As notes swirl within me
The fate of their voice
Keeps all of us deaf
And they land softly, in the dust.
The sign says stop
But I am not allowed the rest.
Because the phantom pain
Wakes me in my ugly sleep.
I lay awake and make up dreams.
Now, gravity goes to work
I let it, because it has a real job to do
Like my patchwork quilt of comfort
I add a patch of heavy sighs
And it wraps around me an embrace,
Breathing my breath for me.