Blues

Sometimes—it doesn't matter where—it comes,

Creeping,

Like stair-footsteps in the night,

Merciless.

Meaningless.

Like twisted sheets, they reach,

White hands so cold

And so bright

That all else dies.

And then I’m sinking,

Drowning,

Rushed along with the

Inevitable tide.

And then I’m lost,

Lost in white

That black becomes.

Blue.

And then it’s not.

It can’t be

Blue

Because blue is

Soft, and

Sky, and

Silk, but

This is

Hard, and

Feet, and

Glass.

Shivered.

Sometimes—it doesn't matter where—it comes,

Loud,

Like the fall,

Proud, and

Small.