Light so bright it hurts the eye
leaves a burn on the underside and in a film
there would be a single note and no one is speaking.
Seen from sofaed head through bubbled glass;
distorted magnification casts bended plastic
ends and words lost to spine mirrors.
Curtains like a painting of curtains smouldering.
From the boundary of strokes, gold is dripping.
Dry plaster bulges with petroleum, will drop.
Red eye circles, door undone, a sound so real,
and on the wall minute beats ebb, and overhead
the lightbulb hums, waiting for its end.
Flames fall, breath of a beast,
and without warning, in the sanguine glow,
sparrowsong and flower fields for a moment fill the mind.
Andrew Senior is a writer of poetry and short literary and speculative fiction, based in Sheffield, UK. His work has been published in various places, including Ekstasis, Fathom and Story Warren.
Agape Review 