(This poem was penned at 1:16 AM)
Late at night
All the babies are asleep, growing slowly
In the quiet space between cold vault of stars and manufactured mattress’ warmth,
And here am I curled and my fingers fly;
Late at night
Chalk dust and ink spots haunt the laminate floor, sometimes
Rough pages of poem-songs scratch the sores from my heart and head, other times,
Not so in the daylight, not so.
As late at night
"Late" at night. What a phrase to say- as if the clock's face solemn condemns the one awake
when the moon is high strung, pulling at the tides -
what is night but a turning from the sun?
And what is the moon but a mirror
to keep faint hopes from leaking out of our eyes?
A construct clicking by. Eternity waits outside, while we huddle in our entropy-prone houses of elements
all the same, afraid
And I am struggling with shame, redemption. On one side seems my sin,
the gold-coin seconds falling fast
to be counted wasted at the last
On the other, a suspension, as the lakewater in early moments before January dawns,
near ice, too clear to cast a stone onto the mirror.
Where does affection fit in here, and where does love?
Wherein comes fate? Where the holy dove? Where is my decision, now...
Am I too late?
Do I lie here too late now?
Too late to know what, when, or who we are -
or is it merely too early
for us to truly know those outlying stars?
Youth and wisdom seldom slip their hands in hand.
But wisdom shall not be forced, nor youth deprived,
nor once united, these two divorced
So we live on, and do not die
We trod on through mires of lies rather
than lay down and allow despair
For we suspect no gains when life ends there,
before journey’s end…
but does it end too late
to assure pure standing at salvation’s gates?
And now, exhausted, I hear the slumber’s calling fading
But Sleep is no friend.
So on the hours tick,
no end, no end.
Note on the subject matter:
The night slows and hastens the clock, and the night is what makes me tick.
I cannot seem to find inspiration save in the early hours of the morning. All my best paintings, stories, and poems have arisen from insomniatic nights...but so have doubts, darkness, insecurities and demons. The morning I love, but the night fascinates me. It is at once invigorating and depressing, lovely and horrible. At the very least, it makes one glad for the sun...but you long for it all the same.