gargoyles guard and protect them
the small hours (one, two, three, and four)
assuring them intact and present
for release every night
hours vast as a cathedral
full of air and invisible holiness
(sit still and try to be blessed)
the darkness in them
suffocates like sand, bearing down
on your eyes, your limbs
(try breathing)
lungs of cement
such small hours, one, two, three, even four
eek out their minutes, the seconds heavy
weighted with the thick humidity of holy water
dawn crawls in around the edges
weeping as she wins the fight for
one more morning
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six foot skinny
Writer to the Stars
Zyskandar Jaimot
Mary Ann Farley
thatdamnbob
Grannypower
Salon.com
Comments
I hate this poem
Lea, all I know is morning always comes. Even during those nights when I swear it never will, it does.
rated
okay.
It may never be done.
"dawn crawls in around the edges
weeping as she wins the fight for
one more morning"
full of air and invisible holiness
(sit still and try to be blessed)"
Wow!