Sometimes I Sit                                                                                                                                                                                      Jonathan Mitchell

 

Sometimes I sit

At the crest of night

Where all that I know succumbs to shadows.

 

I gaze at my lamp,

Its warm glow unrolled onto my desk

Contained by a plastic cylinder directing its efforts.

 

As I sit,

My eyes unfocus;

Blurrily seduced by the lamp

The small glow hangs a beauty over the room.

 

My eyes adjust,

My pen’s outline is drawn into my view.

As I write I hear the glorious alliance of pen and page chiming,

Forming words onto my paper.

 

My ears sharpen and hear

The bright whine of the lamp  struggling

The grunt of the hard-working heater;

All for the first time.

 

Amongst these conversations

An emptiness

No movement, no breath         stranded

A room left lifeless without the lamp.

 

And so I sit,

Pressing the pen harder; pale knuckled clenching,

Regretting morning;   

Knowing when it invades

The wondrous brilliance of the lamp is useless under the towering sun.