it's friday

we are haunted by our

mirrors of shadow and light.

down down past the places

that color and smoke can take us.

nostalgia, you fickle mistress.

days are matchsticks

and life is a storm.

and i try to write the words and the words are tasteless in my mouth.

they are all vowels and curves and lines.

because everyone is a ghost in the world of black and white.

and every word is an etching on a tombstone.

but perhaps

the scales shall fall soon

and i shall find every word in color.

no longer the shadow

and the light.

but the marrow from the bones

and the retina from the eye

and the pulse from the throbbing heart.

real.

light of light,  my Invisible Yahweh.

You are the morning

and I am the waiting.