The Small Hours
A devilish internal unknown truth,
unannounced, abruptly screamed
in or near my unprepared ear
may have been compelled
to cleave early morning's torpor
into two whimpering halves.
Sometimes it has been precisley that.
And sometimes it's only
an innocent cacophony of fighting cats.
Usually it's not even that.
More often than not
it's no more than an awkward silence
between my marrow and the dark.
But there's usually something.
In the couple of hours
before the righteous alarm sounds,
I wake before I should wake.
And in these long moments,
two hours, maybe more,
I am resentfully at one with the light.
The words, the deeds,
the maniacal designs,
all make the world of sense,
and perhaps even sense of the world.
As if to make a mockery
of my comfort and warmth,
invariably I'm permitted to fade
just half a moment
before the righteous alarm sounds.
Then the righteous alarm sounds,
and cleaves early morning's surety
into two contrite halves.
By the time I step out of the shower,
the words, the deeds,
the maniacal designs
have retreated to the bedside drawer.
It is then and there
that my loudest absurdities
sheepishly ebb and die.
24th July 2018
Copyright © Lawrence Sharp | Year Posted 2018
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