The wet, humid heat of that last autumn night,
clung to my skin like a thick, heavy shroud.
Tossing about, rejected by sleep,
I thought about the time we've spent,
searching about in hunger and pain,
finding new ways to avoid the truth.
I'm no longer sure what the truth
is. Many times I've lain awake at night,
aware of the hunger, aware of the pain,
aware that our bedclothes have become a shroud
pulled tightly about us. Our passions spent,
so long ago, yet still we sleep
together. That's all we do is sleep;
except when I disguise the truth
by using you until my lust is spent.
You lie there silent in the night,
letting sleep become your shroud
to insulate you from the pain
of feeling. It's sad that pain
is all we have to share. you sleep
with arms about my shoulders like a shroud,
but closeness cannot hide the truth.
Still there is the comfort of the night,
in darkness we cannot see what has been spent.
It's been months since we've spent
time talking...unwilling to accept the pain
of knowing that our nights
are a reflection of our days. We sleep
through both and all, the truth
is that the silence has become the shroud.
I'd give my soul to tear away this heavy shroud
we've spent
so many nights in weaving. To find the truth
forget the pain
escape the sleep
draw back the shroud of night.
So much pain has been spent
and the solace of sleep is so easy a shroud
and unfamiliar is the night that follows truth.
Frederick E. Smith
©1984