Wednesday, 18 July 2012

A Deadly Foe Indeed

And one I do not wish to face again.


FOUR A.M.

The hour between night and day.
The hour between toss and turn.
The hour of thirty year olds.

The hour swept clean for roosters crowing.
The hour when the earth takes back its warm embrace.
The hour of cool drafts from extinguished stars.
The hour of do-we-vanish-too-without-a-trace.

Empty hour.
Hollow. Vain.
Rock bottom of all the other hours.

No one feels fine at four a.m.
If ants feel fine at four a.m.,
we're happy for the ants. And let five a.m. come
if we've got to go on living. 






No watch rolls encounter dice but the last, and they roll two.
 

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