the days i wake up at 4am, i find myself unsure of the dreams i came from.
hesitant to let them take me back, prisoner or victor,
somewhere in the middle.
4am's famed silences are hard to absorb.
Like cheap sunscreen. Or death.
4am sleep is the rain pounding on tin sheets
edgily slapped together with rusted bolts.
4am wakefulness is the air pressing against your face
in your fall from grace, or the 27th floor.
4am is a thirst too parched to quench itself.
laboured breath that should soldier on, but wonders if it must.
the nights i sleep at 4am, i find myself unsure of the dreams i go toward.
hesitant to let go of conscious certainties, or certain consciousness,
somewhere in the middle.
at 4am, the view outside the window is dark as my heart.
and the first chirp of the mynah nesting atop the air conditioner
is the restless stirring of my soul rattling in its emptiness.
hesitant to let them take me back, prisoner or victor,
somewhere in the middle.
4am's famed silences are hard to absorb.
Like cheap sunscreen. Or death.
4am sleep is the rain pounding on tin sheets
edgily slapped together with rusted bolts.
4am wakefulness is the air pressing against your face
in your fall from grace, or the 27th floor.
4am is a thirst too parched to quench itself.
laboured breath that should soldier on, but wonders if it must.
the nights i sleep at 4am, i find myself unsure of the dreams i go toward.
hesitant to let go of conscious certainties, or certain consciousness,
somewhere in the middle.
at 4am, the view outside the window is dark as my heart.
and the first chirp of the mynah nesting atop the air conditioner
is the restless stirring of my soul rattling in its emptiness.
