by Cendra

Day is dripping, melting, changing, growing
as the sun spins in the sky
like a child's toy top, round and round
It covers my body as it spreads;
an infectious disease
The light prys at you, peeling away the skin,
lifting the veil of secrets that drape around you
Pulling, twisting, melding, you cannot hide
from the cold and bony hand of the past
nor the infantile fingers of the future
Night is spreading, fixing, mixing
with the deep colors of the inbetween
tossing your ideas back at you as you sleep
the unending slumber of the dead

Written March 11, 2003, 8:31 pm
Read 359 times