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.