At This Hour
Tonight ends tonight
for morrow comes morrow
The gasping breath
of gentle moon fades away
It’s already three in the morning
Still, I’m sitting, at the terrace
where once again, I spy
Silent thief tiptoed, leaving its
mistiness on my face, as it
tried to snatch the last blink
of weary eyes, worn
by yesterday’s gloomy
looking fire-red sky
And, this frequent creaking
of a sagging rocking chair
gives soul, the last hope
that you’ll come
ere, the great orb
finally, wakes the sleeping prince
Copyright © Ernesto P. Santiago | Year Posted 2007
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