Dead of Night Eyes

Dead of Night Eyes

I pace inside the grip of the clock,

glide across darkening patches of linoleum,

hunting for murmurs of isolation

as disease sneaks around the edges of my sight.

I pierce the quiet, spear- like and devilish.

My pulse taps against the delicate canvass

of my wrists, a vigilant rhythm that comes

to life in the groping tips of my fingers.

I don’t need eyes to conquer this terrain.

Feeling my way through spaces stained by the lash

of midnight’s arrival, I am guided by memory

and the contours of paint that peels like skin

from the blackened walls.

The tongues of shadows steal the light,

devouring everything that lurks beneath my feet.

Silence is prey to the whisper of my toes and

floorboards that sigh under the weight of my steps.

I thrive in the communion of touch and sound and smell,

knowing that one of these bleak early mornings,

I will fall boldly into the center of blindness,

surrendering my breath as I wait for the sun

to pluck out my dead of night eyes.