I woke up early today,
not sure if I should get up
or roll under my bed and hide
from the bitterness that stings
like dry arugula stuck in my teeth.
The silence is numbing and scrapes
inside my head while rambling scribbles
push me in spirals. Sometimes
the world hops out of view.
What is life, if there is no afterlife?
A prefix for nothing, a start missing
an ending, a fire extinguished.
What is life without a spark – divine
or otherwise – to brighten dark?
We live, we love, we work, we die,
circles overlapping as we mark time
like fireflies savoring the dusk, aware
that night must inexorably snuff
the light we flash for as long as we can.
The sunlight tickles the curtains on its way
to our bed. I catch sight of her
still asleep. I wonder if her cheeks glow
from the sun or from something winsome
warming her from the inside.
I swing my feet to the floor, facing the day
or whatever may barrel headfirst
before night, realizing life isn’t meaningless
for those we share meaning with.
© 2019 Phillip Knight Scott
This poem and many others are available in my collection of poems, Paint the Living, Plant the Dead, available now on Amazon.