Reality.

Some days, when the moon hides behind the cloud’s fingers,

And the ground is debating welcoming the gossamer threads

Of frost, and the leaves that cling to the branches, the autumn-browned

Skeletal leaves, wave and sway, teasing and taunting the wind,

On those days a longing and a sadness overwhelm, and suck

The colour and the hope into grey and black monochrome.

On those days, the touch of compassion would be welcome,

An embrace from the arms of a stranger, comfort from someone

Who knows no reason to turn their back and leave.

The soft and velvet suffocation of night sneaks and curls

Round the curtains, the lamps, and spreads, like mist

Over the reds and yellows, turning them to browns and beige,

Leaving them limp and formless, cold to the core.

When hope and warmth have gone, when despair is all that is left,

It is then that the laughter of childhood would cut through the darkness,

The love and affection, the smiling of shared memories, 

It is then that it would be good not to be alone.

But instead the black night floods over every thought and moment

Recalled, and drowns them, washes them into oblivion.

(c) 2ndwitch 11/11/13