In the wash of artificial light

we cast gray, pixelated shadows and

desperate, we yearn for the true darkness

that lies just barely beyond our reach.


What theory must I uncover

to explain the mystery of

the depths of your eyes? Two

silent orbs aimed mercilessly for my soul.

I feel like you already know,

everything there is to know.


The weight of paper can never hold

the dimensions of man though he tries

to divulge all his secrets on a solitary sheet but

the ink runs dry and so many blue lines

begin to blur and I don’t even know

when the speech became so slurred.

Numbers and figures and integers and freeways;


the dogs are growling in someone’s yard.

I can hear them beginning their arguments and

closing statements. They follow the sound of sirens

much like thrill seeking lawyers do and

both keep me awake at night, wishing on

the light bulb moon. She shuts herself off

from me like never before. I wish

I could reach her, but gravity

has me nailed to the floor.


Scarlet Pantomime is the pseudonym of a poet living and working in the Bay Area.