Before Dawn
Its the breathing of relax ! which mingle mixes beneath the roof of tamping rain drops, beyond the road salt stained glass, i know ! Its cold, of passing wheels, at early o'clock and the spitting, in crimson, spiralling, crackling music of the metamorphosis into charcoal of long past,chopped very dry logs; early o'clock cloaks me in the revolving whir of the fridge, i cannot hear the spiders feet! although he has eight scurrying in the scullery, or the plop of the tea bag and the bubbling of hot, dropping swilling and brown.
It is the gentle of Bozz and Betti snoring and my goose bumped arms scaffolding a heavy head and drooping eye lids, ah,comfort arrives in many clothes sizes and times.
But, this comfort slips from key white to key black, the dripping morning of disappointed tunes and stamping feet, blurs under the flap of the breezing yawn of letterbox joy, just a jumble of jigsawed letters missing from an eternal alphabet, i am not liking this day, to evening and death.
Copyright © John Lusardi | Year Posted 2021
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