Sunlight shines through flowing drapes

spreading alabaster swords in all directions.

They stab at flooring and my semi-paralyzed body,

seeking to fill holes as if pain

no longer bore holes as light, now often, does.


A wakeful wind pushes, playfully,

those curving curtains made of woe.

With every breath comes a gush of light

from whose face I shy away.

It is not my fault, after all:

Light should not be so rude.


I do not remember leaving open a window

leading to this sanctuary where I lay.

If I had known what melancholy chill

would creep as skeletal fingers over me,

the wind would see only sunlight

a mate with which to play.


Though light makes holes it wishes to fix

and believes only my pain to make,

and a wind dances merrily with curtains in my heart

as if a morning could bring back a beauteous night,

They know not what they do

and I refuse to condemn them.


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