Days Are As Night's Stand
The television's glare of a window's glow,
as drops of rain burst against it's pane.
Speakers of tone and rhythmic hues,
search my ears dry.
Lines in the carpet of pacing dances,
and ticks worth of a clocks beat,
lurk by as in wait.
Whether it be a grasp or hold,
of hands kept weak.
To a whimpering heart,
I am yours.