(This poem was penned at 1:16 AM)

Late at night

All the babies are asleep, growing slowly

In the quiet space between cold vault of stars and manufactured mattress’ warmth,

And here am I curled and my fingers fly;

Late at night

Chalk dust and ink spots haunt the laminate floor, sometimes

Rough pages of poem-songs scratch the sores from my heart and head, other times,

Not so in the daylight, not so.

As late at night

"Late" at night. What a phrase to say- as if the clock's face solemn condemns the one awake

when the moon is high strung, pulling at the tides -

what is night but a turning from the sun?

And what is the moon but a mirror

to keep faint hopes from leaking out of our eyes?

Time, but

A construct clicking by. Eternity waits outside, while we huddle in our entropy-prone houses of elements

all the same, afraid

And I am struggling with shame, redemption. On one side seems my sin,

the gold-coin seconds falling fast

to be counted wasted at the last

On the other, a suspension, as the lakewater in early moments before January dawns,

near ice, too clear to cast a stone onto the mirror.

Where does affection fit in here, and where does love?

Wherein comes fate? Where the holy dove? Where is my decision, now...

Am I too late?

Do I lie here too late now?

Too late to know what, when, or who we are -

or is it merely too early

for us to truly know those outlying stars?

Youth and wisdom seldom slip their hands in hand.

But wisdom shall not be forced, nor youth deprived,

nor once united, these two divorced

From spirit.

So we live on, and do not die

We trod on through mires of lies rather

than lay down and allow despair

For we suspect no gains when life ends there,

before journey’s end…

but does it end too late

to assure pure standing at salvation’s gates?

And now, exhausted, I hear the slumber’s calling fading

But Sleep is no friend.

So on the hours tick,

no end, no end.

Note on the subject matter:

The night slows and hastens the clock, and the night is what makes me tick.

I cannot seem to find inspiration save in the early hours of the morning. All my best paintings, stories, and poems have arisen from insomniatic nights...but so have doubts, darkness, insecurities and demons. The morning I love, but the night fascinates me. It is at once invigorating and depressing, lovely and horrible. At the very least, it makes one glad for the sun...but you long for it all the same.