| The wicker chair on the porch, the open screen: The air at 3 AM smells slightly strange - stickly, sweet and stale, vanilla tinged - I'd say honeysuckle but I've never met one - and its song between the day seems unsure Which note to carry, stillness or whispers Of the other time. |
Across the street, voices
With a beer tinged lilt talk of mysteries
Immature and dreams deeply felt, vaguely
Seen. They drift into the hum of silence,
reminiscing youth of a future not yet lived.
The birds skitter with the stars, twinkling tunes
in echo light - a tweaking of the dawn
that’s yet to come in the hours I hope to sleep -
the mind needs calm exhaustion, but mine
has thoughts of a thousand ifs
aswirl in the multiverse of night.
With a beer tinged lilt talk of mysteries
Immature and dreams deeply felt, vaguely
Seen. They drift into the hum of silence,
reminiscing youth of a future not yet lived.
The birds skitter with the stars, twinkling tunes
in echo light - a tweaking of the dawn
that’s yet to come in the hours I hope to sleep -
the mind needs calm exhaustion, but mine
has thoughts of a thousand ifs
aswirl in the multiverse of night.
