benjamin costello

back to poetry

fickle light

Circling the commons like a ghost
Seeing what life is supposed to be
But it's foreign, like a tongue
I don't understand

Echoes of some long-since-passed optimism
seep up through my floor
and force me to
watch my step

I traded a warm nest
for a white water raft
and the comfort of lies
was let loose

Now solely
like a tiny bird crossing the sun
I am blinded and bleeding,
surrendering to its fickle light.