gentle artificial light
touches the ground fingerlessly,
my heart wishing to nevertheless
hold its hand, be guided to the inside--
I am no fool, yet my hand is empty
of the security that is home,
as the shine from the interior
mocks my cold and lonesome palm.
it is painful, yes, the icy grip
that won’t leave from between my fingers,
in that it reminds me
of that place where fire burns,
that chambered place
where warmth always returns.
and I can see the light
beyond the fogging pane,
where I am unrecognized
hence my bloodless knuckles
clenched and pressed
against the frosted, illuminated ground,
where my hand wishes to hold
a hand of the heart,
who’d seat me in its chambers
to regain color in the visible warmth.
About the Creator
Brett Mayfield
Be bold, be bright.
Northwestern University class of '22. Advocate for the unity of people through education.
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