The Pen On The Table [poem]

Blog Number 40 - Writing

The room is monochrome, classic.

A spotlight cuts silver into black.

In the conical light there is a table.

And on the table, a pen,

A gravity.

Outside, trapped in the ripples, I circle,

A predator, a vulture,

A moth dancing towards the light,

I pace,

I panic,

I prowl.

My arrow-hand stabs into the laser,

Impatient, clumsy.

And retreats again, ashamed, afraid,

I anticipate a burning pain, but it doesn’t transpire.

In the dark, my grey hand shows no blistered skin.

Instead, it itches.

My eyes look up, back at the table,

And on that table, the pen.

A pen with my name waiting in the ink.

My feet push awkwardly beneath quaking legs towards the light,

My toes teasing into the circle,

Like they’re peeling over the edge of a diving board,

They dip into the pool.

It’s warm.

A step. A jump. A dive.

Into the halo until my whole body is coated in white flames.

I’m a burning ghost.

Charging forward,

My phantom-hand extends, hovers and snatches.

The spear is swallowed in the black wave of a shadow-glove,

A lizard-tongue lift with hungry thieves-fingers,

That tighten around the neck.

A child’s greedy fist.

I have the foil.

And I run.

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