The Calm After the Storm

You live to sleep
and sleeping live in darkness
hiding from the clarity if the light
that might show the seams
of where your different pieces
come together and apart.
In the comfort of the dimness,
you fill your mouth with fozen foods,
your brain with the mental noise
of promises, echoing unfulfillment.

And when you say to me
"I must eat my dinner."
clutching at your stomach
with the dirty fingernails
of your pitch stained hands,
I feel the weight of Prospero's books,
and I know that frozen foods
will not satisfy your hunger.
Without looking back, 
I walk away 
to live in the light.