There's a peculiar sort of vision bestowed on one who walks out of a movie theater. I tend to think of the night sky as simply dark pierced with stars like needles a little painful, even. But walking through the grease-stained doors, into the blinding lot lights and looking up into the clouds, while everyone else is looking around, the sky is a peculiar shade of black like a thick, fuzzy comforter. I've seen this black before. It's not like my dad's labs, which is tarrish. I have a black car, which looks more like night. Just plain black. Like the crayon. I couldn't rest my head against it and take a nap, Like I could with this. No, I've only seen this black one time, as I saw her, suspicious fear shivering my arm, poking her with a stick, afraid she'll run up it to my hand, and I turn her over, to see time running out.
Reason for writing:
None given
Birth sign: Not entered
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by Brad Bedingfield.