It hits you like something indecent.
Like the scattered dust particles
you can't help but notice in sunlight.
And you ache and wonder.

It hits you like something terribly empty
Like a church ground after Christmas mass
when the Lamb is forgotten and people
scurry off to their parties and gifts.

It hits you like regret at telling
a crude joke but getting no responsive smirk
A poor price to pay for ceding
to the surrounding humour levels.

It hits you awfully fast
like a look between people you trust -
furtive and scornful
at an outspoken thought of yours
which is a confession to one party
and a tiresome joke to another.

It hits you like only December can
with its chilly nights, sparse sunlight
and prodigal words.

It hits you quite rudely
like a room full of guests who fraternize with you
out of obligation and social propriety
thinking you do not realize.

And you stand back and watch, awestruck,
as all the negativities in your head take flight
on ragged, jagged wings from the caves and hollows
of your fears and dreams.
Sometimes they swoop down and pick up unsuspecting,
simplistically optimistic prey
running around aimlessly and unaware
on the imposing grasslands of your reality
Carrying them off - dumbstruck by the force of the blow
into the sun streaked, unforgiving sky.

And you look around,
A writer, but not.
A poet, but not.
A dreamer, but not.
A person, but not.
Just the ash from last night's cigarettes
on a cold, tiled floor
on a smoggy, regretful morning.