Light fades and my window darkens,
the gloaming hues so distant,
an orange line aglow;
and my room closes in,
the walls creak and moan,
draw nearer, like tall bending structures
towering over me,
as shadows join the bleak night gloom.
But one small light carves a hole out of space,
its edges blurred by encroaching wall,
and I sit tapping on keys, words spilling
to cyber paper, upright and white,
ignited by a sole intention,
perforating the dark,
as time slows to a whimper of ticks,
as if my deft hands dulling its intent.
The chill makes crisp the edges of the room,
as if caught by icy claws, sealing me in,
and the glow of my heater, small,
barely breaks the shadows;
and still I tap away,
words like shattered glass tinkling through air,
as letters swirl and twist over the white
to rest upon my wills reflection, upon the page.
Winter writing, silence, the cat ‘s purr,
the rhythmic silence of time marking,
and there is no relent, words beckon,
and mind is fused to thoughts,
spilling into these fingers, tapping,
aching, placating my other needs,
and still I write the night,
the cold winter night.
Tony DeLorger © 2016