The Poet's Retreat

It is midnight. The world outside sleeps.  
I ache to write a poem, to do something  
lustrous with the day,
though the day has been a poem  
in itself,
a soft, tiny sadness and grief.  
In the living room, constellations of my being,  
the delicate farmhouse and Victorian decor  
I treasure.
The burgundy silk table runner  
and crimson roses,  
pillows like overstuffed letters
bearing news of an old world.  
The cat sleeps tucked into the white,  
crochet coverlet like a furry fist
and pictures on the wall
pronounce this a happy home.  
It is all timeless.  
Only the television belies my century.  
I am alone amongst beautiful things,
a stranger in a gorgeous but barren country.  
Soon I will slide like a hand
into the warm, comforting glove of my bed,
burrowing into the frilly, blue blankets  
as alone as a fetus
my thoughts racing,  
restless in my solitude,  
and finally,  
Written by toniscales (Lost Girl)
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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