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Whirl Wind Poem
At 3am you become your own philosopher, categorizing
the different genres of humans and wondering
if you fall even remotely close to anyone on the spectrum.
You debate with yourself the meaning of life, again,
and then regret everything you accomplished the previous day.
5am, that’s the breaking point.
The sun climbs out of bed, and chases away
the comforting lure of night and all dreams of slumber.
The damned birds start peeping and you curse and sigh,
watching the room change colours
until you must get up to join the others.
But 4am, it’s the gaping time of day
that even the insomniacs deny.
As if night took a deep breath and forgot to exhale,
the silence is quieter, the darkness more pure.
You hide under covers and stare into emptiness
trying to make something of black space
but your mind remains impossibly blank.
Copyright © Whirl Wind | Year Posted 2014
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Details |
Whirl Wind Poem
Romance was not our muse, he types
Not writes his farewells before each morning -
A simple 'Till tomorrow' left by cooling sheets.
We started as lovers, before we were friends
Speaking in touches instead of thoughts
Every night he clouded our secrecy
With cigarette smoke, an ashtray beneath my bed,
A counter of the days we were spent.
But a playful joke turned bittersweet, I slipped
My favourite glinting stud, a gift
In his pocket lining, finding instead a reminder
Of sin and silent lives, a ticket
To home and back to reality.
In dawn’s light and an empty bed, I wrapped
Bruised red lips around his fading cig, enjoying
The lingering taste of him and his ashy breath.
Romance was not our muse, I type
Not write my farewells before the morning -
A simple 'Good-bye' left by cooling sheets.
Copyright © Whirl Wind | Year Posted 2014
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