Delirium's Illumination
when I am sick and weary
Laying here looking at the stars
so many without the city smudge
I feel like a lead brick
surrounded by freshly picked cotton
I am cold
but I am sweating
my coat is worn, old
I am, too
fitting is it not?
empty heart
empty head
empty soul
empty bed
Who am I?
Can a digital neon sign
love an incandescent bulb?
I am the sound that shatters the quiet,
yet never is heard aloud.
A dancer on the ceiling
in a room without a floor.
I run faster than starlight,
but only when obscured.
I am carried in your pocket
full of yesterday’s broken glass,
yet, when you ask,
I am already running backwards.
I run over hills and valleys,
in the darkness I disappear.
Why do keys refuse to fit the locks
on a door that opens
only from the inside?
Who is holding the candle
while I am burning it
at both ends?
Like a point in space
that never has an end,
I make sense when the sky is red
but only when you stop trying to see.
Who am I?
Why is a tenebrous like a crystal tomb?
©Thomas Crandall, end of March 2026
I am nearly delirious from this cold, flu, illness … whatever this is. This is where my mind has been wandering lately. This poem is a riddle. Think about Poe’s answer to, “Why is a raven like a writing desk?” and you’ll be close. If you’ve read this far and you think you know the answer, post it in a comment.