Qualm

His glasses are left on the table
That he squints his eyes
So hard to gaze at the ceiling above
Deciphering the scribbles of doubt
Printed on the shadow of the spinning fan

The still light beside the fan
Radiating teasing rays of illumination
Tainting everything they reveal
Blinding his vision mercilessly
Reminding him of mankind’s vulnerability in the dark
Seeking pride for itself like every human being

He sinks into his own bed
Like he sinks into his own thoughts
Illusive and hypocritical
Never knowingly the wind that glides on his face
The light that poisons his skin
The comfort of his only-trustable bed
Exist but are never real
Like the shadowy, doubtful scribbles
For his senses are fooled
And the mind’s deluded
By no one but himself