Upside Down On The Ceiling.

I awoke
this morning,
in the blackest of blue.

The grey numbers
projected onto the ceiling
read 3:17 AM.
Exactly.

I laid still,
unable to move.
A cold so deep
had filled my room,
that as I exhaled,
I could see my breath
rising from my lips
like the smoke
from my last cigarette
before I laid my head down
to rest.

The cold
that filled the room
crept in like a sick child;
finding it's way
under the comforter
and next to me.

And I stayed frozen.
I did not move.
I just laid there,
watching the grey numbers on the ceiling;
waiting for them to change.

I watched my breath
rise slowly
into the deep black blue
above my bed.
I watched
as the frozen vapor
danced its way up
to where the grey numbers
on the ceiling
waited
for the change.

But it stayed
3:17 AM,
until I found the courage
to shut my eyes.

With the strength
of a 100 ton
sheet metal press,
I crushed my eyes
closed tight.

I stayed that way
eyes clenched,
body taut,
in the cold.

And I counted the ways,
that I was alone.

I counted the seconds.

I counted the things,
That I missed.

I counted the minutes.

I counted the moments of joy,
that where now destined to be erased.

I counted the hours.

I counted all those
that I had lost.

I counted the days.

I counted all the parts of me
that had been taken away.

I imagined,
that if I kept on counting;
when I opened my eyes again
the morning's sun
would have risen.

I imagined,
that if I found the way,
to make a complete
and comprehensive list
of all that aches me so;
it would all be erased
if I kept my eyes
closed tight,
until the warms sun embrace
of a new day.

I imagined,
and wanted to believe.

When I opened my eyes again,
stamped metal tears
were stacked up in rows
down my face,
like rusty, unpolished
fenders
on a vacant assembly line
in Detroit.

The grey numbers
projected onto the ceiling
read 3:18 AM.
Exactly.

And in the corner
of my room,
a faceless figure,
dressed in my work clothes
and distressed and beaten boots,
sat in my father's chair,
legs crossed,
hands placed neatly in his lap,
upside down
on the ceiling.

Terror
pinned my limbs
to the bed,
and squelched the scream
that ached to ring out,
like a lonely church bell's call.

Curiosity,
and love,
kept my eye's wide open;
even as the burn of rust,
seared and scratched
the antique, ripple glass lenses
that took the unsettling image in.

Tonight,
as I fight my way
back to sleep,
a storm is raging
over the Fort.
Lightning
licks the surface
of the black water
out back.
And thunder rumbles
across the barren acres
of Todd's Fields.

Both,
of my elderly neighbors
have commented to me
about the heavy weather
of the last six months.

"In all my years,
I have never seen winds such as this."

"The storm's of late
seem to have more fury."

I have been here,
out on the Fort,
for six months.
Perhaps,
I have brought the storm with me?

Another,
uneasy sleep,
awaits.