pome

there is a state of mind to which i have become accustomed and of which i am quite possesive. it is like
a dimly lit and warm log cabin. snow-covered. silent, save one sound: the crackling of the burning thing in the fire pit.

in there:
weeks without a soul
and the peace of god's ignorance.
i can even forget i have a voice.

a knock and open door bring in the bastard cold.
i remember you.
your laughter puts out fire.
less warmth. bright white light. chatter and pitter and patter.

the waked soul remembers too.
rattled and faded. punished and jaded.
now hovers over me, afraid.

-R.Fino