I feel like the lamp
by your bedside
you turn out at night.
The light disappears
but you can still feel it
for a minute or two,
burning on,
only to forget.
Then when you say prayers
and look outside to the stars,
you realize the fishbowl you’re in
and trail off in disbelief.
Can sleep save me now, please,
Dear God.
Let anything but life capture me,
for life is teasing me with death,
and death with life.
You think I’d get used
to starting over again every day,
but I don’t.
It’s like having to unpack
into new home in the morning,
and packing up again by night,
hoping you’ll have friends
in the new place you’re heading,
and arriving there alone as you ought.
The days are hard as rocks, Dear God,
and I settle at the bottom of the sea.
I’m not ready, God,
I’m not ready,
but I’m turned stone cold
with the whispering breeze.
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Submission Name: The Days
