The Doldrums of March

The day was so dull, almost shadow-less,
and I was so alone, even a shadow
would have given me comfort.

Pages of ancient tomes, full of musk, call to me;
for there has always been comfort there.
I light lamps damning the florescent pall.
Walls become whitewashed,
blue-tinged harbingers of death,
when bathed in the flicker of florescent light;
I will not succumb.

I worship beneath
the shadow-casting gold of incandescence.
The 300-watt glow
of my gifted torchiere soothes me.
I place a thin-skinned cheek
upon the chill of plaster wall,
wishing to submerge myself in shadow.

Ah, the page that calls, the keys which click,
when pen has gone unfound, are all I have.

Why leave, my heart cries out,
there is only the cold of the grave,
and none to mourn your passing.
Only the sterile page, the plastered walls,
the shadowed-stage?
No, I argue with my weary self, waylay this
Keats-like gloom of poverty and tombs, and rise!
The sun will shine at winter's end to daffodils.