I know that all is white, white, all light,
Not black as one might think.
With darkness comes warmth, protection, secrecy, yes,
One hides in night as black as ink.
But one cannot hide in the light. The light is everywhere
And everywhere is cold and clinically precise.
The world is perfect, simple, ordered, clean,
An empty mechanical device.
Clocks tick, dogs bark,
My hair grows longer by the day.
In the basket on the counter,
Fruit slowly withers from decay.
Yet, nothing happens, ever,
Nothing changes, never dares
To dim the garish worldly light
And alter our affairs.
Oh that one might taint that glare
And light a candle to,
What might have been, in half-light seen,
The ghost of me and you.
A short love poem on the emptiness following something that could have been. By Napier Thompson © 2010.