White Wash

Sitting here in my white-washed room,
Seconds flicker past. I contemplate you.
As a shimmering froth-tipped wave on a surging moon-lit sea;
I reflect your light, helplessly.

Silence spreads now, a chasm in sound,
The dial has been (irreversibly?) turned down.

I should like to abandon this
and lift myself on gilded wings
from the gaping abyss
of endless empty time.

Sitting here in my white-washed room,
Minutes burn to dust, contorting my view.
As a crow to the earth of a fresh-dug grave;
I fixate on your darkness, a slave

To the notion that you might come for me,
One day like a rescue mission,
Flood-lit, that scours the sea
for survivors of some wave-racked wreck.

And if that wreck be me?
I should be condemned to sink without trace.

Sitting here in my white-washed room,
Hours escape me, surrendering revelations
While realization ploughs its course;
You are in the light.
I am haunted by your darkness.