Friday, May 16, 2014

Strangely Lit

He never finished anything. Our days
Were hazy, and our evenings strangely lit
By pools of light ascending from a pit
Below us, so that we could see bright rays
Arising from the deeps, a light that plays
On chins, on elbows, light that seems to flit
From nooks to ceilings. I make fun of it,
But watch my faraway and lonesome gaze.

Sometimes it rains, and then I think of him,
And when I think about those days gone by,
When girls were beautiful and men were high,
When days were bright and sunsets slightly dim,
The product of an elemental whim,
I scratch my head and start to wonder why.