- Non-Erotic Poetry
- Face at the Window
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Last thing I want to see
looking back at me
on black glass as cold and polished as stone
when I’m all alone
Face at the window
Last thing I want to see
looking back at me
on black glass as cold and polished as stone
when I’m all alone
In the late hours
so my trembling hand
as frightened as a nervous bird
fills my
ash stray
with crushed and ground cigarettes
and the floor is worn for pacing
because it was a face
I did not recognize
floating and grinning in the dark
I dare not open the curtains
and I barricade the door
as sleep evades me like sheep skittish at the smell of wolves
I'm in my own prison of my room and my mind
scared to look out the window
afraid of what I'd find
looking back at me
In the late hours
so my trembling hand
as frightened as a nervous bird
fills my
ash stray
with crushed and ground cigarettes
and the floor is worn for pacing
because it was a face
I did not recognize
floating and grinning in the dark
I dare not open the curtains
and I barricade the door
as sleep evades me like sheep skittish at the smell of wolves
I'm in my own prison of my room and my mind
scared to look out the window
afraid of what I'd find
looking back at me
