beneath blankets

it begins at dawn;
so many failed attempts
of the sun
to swarm our cheeks
with a dispersion of blood.

meanwhile drips down
lightless glass.
here is where,
in their darkened hall,
the wakeless sound
of tires threshing puddles
makes me curl
into a shapeless ball.

do they sing to us; the birds?
do they dream of us; the lovers?
do they? do we? does anybody ever
wake on days such as these?

i am beneath blankets
of cotton and fog,
pillows of mist,
a ceiling that never shone dawn.
oh, to stir.
i hear someone’s tiptoed weight
creak a plank
of the wooden lain floor.

was it you?
was it me?
was this all
we were ever
meant to be?

meanwhile drips down
collecting what was
on the lip of a sill.
it waits
to be washed away,
kissed by so many
whirling tire treads.

it is sad;
these mournings.

written on 10/07/2015 by: Matt Kane