eye lidded

When five comes and the birds begin their song
You say to yourself, which from all the crimes in
My songbook, was the one that earned me this
Precious punishment. The one committed
At the drop of a hat, in a dingy bar, at some
Drunken hour, failing to even sense the presence
Of a god, let alone the fact you’d offended
Him or her or it. There must be some overlooked
Crime, awaiting rediscovery, whose sly curse holds
The brain in inclement health in spite of heart’s
Longing for that which the night should offer:
An end to all thinking; the films of your
Silent mind; the icepick of unconscious.
When five comes and the birds begin their song
You have unpicked all the visible vices, and still
The answer hasn’t come, still the riddle of this
Perverse wakefulness taunts. All you can do is
Listen to the birds, and hope that in their
Greeting you shall find the answer before
Another day has come, leaving another night’s
Waste of sleep behind, whilst the vengeful god
Smiles at the havoc he or she or it doth wreak.


holloway
16.01.06