The crimson sky,
swords of sunlight,
fall through the glass panes of my window.
The swords trace
patterns on my empty notebook.
Its pages white, bright shiny.
My hand in mid air,
pen clung between middle and index finger,
making unintelligible shapes.
White page, shiny, bright,
crimson swords on it,
cut through my conscience.
Long and wasted years
spent, burnt away.
Faces, years, friends, foes, nobodies
rush past.
Crimson fades, slowly
to light orange.
The swords losing the edge,
the steel melting,
the pores of conscience closing.
Memories turned about,
present restored again.
Light orange, suddenly
drops into darkness.
I light a candle,
near the notebook.
Its pages, white, shiny, bright again.
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