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Staring through the glass are two bulbous eyes,
pupils slightly dilated through lack of proper sleep;
a slight stress panic gripping the eyelids.

The room is always a lot gloomier from behind the
tinted frame through which I observe this figure
every day. Daemons shelter in every corner
within the shadows, itching, scratching, nagging.

He sits and watches me throughout the week days,
eyes flittering across the square window behind which
I sit. All I see, all day, every day: one phone, one keyboard,
one mouse, one chair, one desk – strewn with work,
one mound of documents steadily rising with the winter cold.

What I observe rarely changes, but what observes me
alters year upon year. I see light grey in summer, dark black
in winter, and all the shades within as the spectrum of
seasons blur into one another. I see, but you don’t see me

© Sam Cunningham, October 2008

Lightning strikes out across the way
exploding diamonds facets in the sky.
The glint of teeth and fairy lights
underneath the sea above the night,
like pearls below a princess’s lips,
like sights from sailor’s ships, that cascade
through the water – catching every ripple.
The water protects, apart from the rip
of a wave creating a crack, and finally it
is clear this is all a façade;
the facets worth more than you or me
are worthless.
And the tide slowly descends into the day.
And the lights slowly drift away.

© Sam Cunningham, October 2008