Time is a trickster;
the ticking clock: its vicious heart.
It impregnates.
It destroys.
It heals.
It unravels.
It dons the skin of an imposter
in the coldest stretch of night:
a magician weaving fantasies
that sear.
Neutralize.
Inspire.
Though I wonder--
I worry--
are the days too long?
Are the nights too dim
and fleeting?
Do I dance through each
crescendo
in a lurid,
patchwork nightmare?
Or are my dreams so full of pain,
that soon,
I'll shatter beneath them
and finally wake up?

Last night you slept
like a log

or was it a rock

as for me
I kept chasing

the merchant of sleep
into the early morning

like a wayward ice cream truck
but it's a new day

and the sun is an orange and juicy
tangerine in the sky

let's make a pact

Whit Howland © 2020