I'm not afraid of the dark--
I'm afraid of the light,
that stealthy insight that looms overhead and slowly
envelopes my mind:
equal parts consolation and condemnation
of the decisions I've made and the dreams I've deferred
until tomorrow,
always tomorrow.
I can't sleep till midnight
because my mind insists on activity;
my whole being validated by three lines,
or three words,
whatever I write I become; I see.
What would you say
if I told you I count to twenty,
three times in a row after I hit snooze five times,
that I lie in bed, ruminating my failures
and the impending day,
resolute and domineering,
like an aged, hardened war general
who refuses to answer to, "I will not, sir;
I cannot do that, even for you,
or my country...sweet land of tyranny."
I think I find some meaning
and solace
in the minutes that beckon to morning
and hold fast to inevitable recycling of failure come freedom--
for, we are no longer chained by our fears when we forget
perfection.
I'll never reach that star;
I have no ladder that steep,
or hands that far reach,
outstretching past my own soiled skin--
tears that bleed.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 1:05 AM UTC
I'm not afraid of the dark--
I'm afraid of the light,
that stealthy insight that looms overhead and slowly
envelopes my mind:
equal parts consolation and condemnation
of the decisions I've made and the dreams I've deferred
until tomorrow,
always tomorrow.
I can't sleep till midnight
because my mind insists on activity;
my whole being validated by three lines,
or three words,
whatever I write I become; I see.
What would you say
if I told you I count to twenty,
three times in a row after I hit snooze five times,
that I lie in bed, ruminating my failures
and the impending day,
resolute and domineering,
like an aged, hardened war general
who refuses to answer to, "I will not, sir;
I cannot do that, even for you,
or my country...sweet land of tyranny."
I think I find some meaning
and solace
in the minutes that beckon to morning
and hold fast to inevitable recycling of failure come freedom--
for, we are no longer chained by our fears when we forget
perfection.
I'll never reach that star;
I have no ladder that steep,
or hands that far reach,
outstretching past my own soiled skin--
tears that bleed.
